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PUBLlSIi ED j)oDD, M ead ^ (oMPANy’s liBRARy of N 2 10 
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Jan. 15th (1890). The Earth Trembled. 

Feb. 1st. Young GirFs Wooing. 

Feb. 1 5th. Opening of a Chestnut Burr, 
Mar. 1st. From Jest to Earnest. 
Mar. 15th. Without a Home. 
April 1st. His Sombre Rivals. 

April 15th. Day of Fate. 

May 1st. Nature’s Serial Story. 
May 15th. Face Illumined. 
June 1st. He Fell in Love With His Wife. 

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July 1st. What Can She Do. 

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DODD, MEAD & COMPANY, Publishers, New York, 


His Sombre Rivals. 



EDWARD P. ^OE, '"X 

AUTHOR OF 

** Barriers Burned Away," “ Opening a Chestnut Binui,” 

"Without a Home," Etc., Etc. 





NEW YORK; 

DODD, MEAD & COMPANY, 

Publishers. 




P23 . 

4 


Copyright, 1883, by 
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY 


7 '' 





PREFACE. 


The following story has been taking form in my 
mind for several years, and at last I have been able 
to write it out. With a regret akin to sadness, I 
take my leave, this August day, of people who have 
become very real to me, whose joys and sorrows I 
have made my own. Although a Northern man, I 
think my Southern readers will feel that I have 
sought to do justice to their motives. At this dis- 
tance from the late Civil War, it is time that passion 
and prejudice sank below the horizon, and among 
the surviving soldiers who were arrayed against each 
other I think they have practically disappeared. 
Stern and prolonged conflict taught mutual respect. 
The men of the Northern armies were convinced, 
beyond the shadow of a doubt, that they had fought 
men and Americans, — men whose patriotism and 
devotion to a cause sacred to them was as pure 
and lofty as their own. It is time that sane men 
and women should be large-minded enough to 
recognize that, whatever may have been the original 
motives of political leaders, the people on both sides 
were sincere and honest ; that around the camp-fires 


IV 


PREFACE, 


at their hearths and in their places of worship they 
looked for God’s blessing on their efforts with equal 
freedom from hypocrisy. 

I have endeavored to portray the battle of Bull 
Run as it could appear to a civilian spectator : to 
give a suggestive picture and not a general descrip- 
tion. The following war-scenes are imaginary, and 
colored by personal reminiscence. I was in the ser- 
vice nearly four years, two of which were spent with 
the cavalry. Nevertheless, justly distrustful of my 
knowledge of military affairs, I have submitted my 
proofs to my friend Colonel H. C. Hasbrouck, 
Commandant of Cadets at West Point, and therefore 
have confidence that as mere sketches of battles and 
skirmishes they are not technically defective. 

The title of the story will naturally lead the reader 
to expect that deep shadows rest upon many of its 
pages. I know it is scarcely the fashion of the pres- 
ent time to portray men and women who feel very 
deeply about anything, but there certainly was deep 
feeling at the time of which I write, as, in truth, 
there is to-day. The heart of humanity is like the 
ocean. There are depths to be stirred when the 
causes are adequate. 


Cornwall-on-the-Hudson, 
August 21, 1883. 


E. P. R. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER I. 

PACK 

An Embodiment of May, 9 

CHAPTER II. 

Mere Fancies, ao 

CHAPTER III. 

The Verdict of a Sage 32 

CHAPTER IV. 

Warning or Incentive, 36 

CHAPTER V. 

Impressions, 43 

CHAPTER VI. 

Philosophy at Fault, • • 53 

CHAPTER VII. 

fVARREN HiLLAND, 62 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Supreme Moments, 70 

CHAPTER IX. 

The Revelation, 84 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER X. 

PAGE 


The Kinship of Suffering, 

• 

• 

94 

CHAPTER XI. 

The Ordeal, 



. lOI 

CHAPTER XIL 

Flight to Nature, 




CHAPTER XIII. 

The Friends, 




CHAPTER XIV. 

Noble Deception, 




CHAPTER XV. 

“ I wish he had Known,” 

. 

. 

. 151 

CHAPTER XVI. 

The Cloud in the South, 



. 162 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Preparation, 




CHAPTER XVIII. 

The Call to Arms, 




CHAPTER XIX. ^ 

The Blood-Red Sky, .... 


• 

. ’ 193 

CHAPTER XX. 

Two Battles, . - 





CHAPTER XXI. 


The Logic of Events, 


219 


. CONTENTS. 


vu 

CHAPTER XXII. 

PACK 

Self-Sentenced, 242 

CHAPTER XXIH. 

An Early Dream Fulfilled, 250 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

Unchronicled Conflicts, 264 

CHAPTER XXV. 

A Presentiment, 274 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

An Improvised Picture Gallery, 283 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

A Dream, 293 

CHAPTER XXVIIL 

Its Fulfilment, 310 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

A Southern Girl, 322 

CHAPTER XXX. 

Guerillas, • 338 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

Just in Time, 349 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

A Wounded Spirit, 360 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

The White-Haired Nurse, 367 


CONTENTS. 


viii 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

PACK 

Rita’s Brother, . . ■ 381 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

His Sombre Rivals, 391 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

All Materialists, 399 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

The Effort to Live, 409 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

Graham’s Last Sacrifice, 426 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

Married Unconsciously, • 439 

CHAPTER XL. 

Rita Anderson, 461 

CHAPTER XLI. 

A Little Child shall lead them, .... 473 


CHAPTER L 


AN EMBODIMENT OF MAY. 

“T)EY0ND that revolving light lies my home. 

JD And yet why should I use such a term when 
the best I can say is that a continent is my home ? 
Home suggests a loved familiar nook in the great 
world. There is no such niche for me, nor can I 
recall any place around which my memory lingers 
with especial pleasure."* 

In a gloomy and somewhat bitter mood, Alford 
Graham thus soliloquized as he paced the deck of 
an in-coming steamer. In explanation it may be 
briefly said that he had been orphaned early in life, 
and that the residences of his guardians had never 
been made homelike to him. While scarcely more 
than a child he had been placed at boarding-schools 
where the system and routine made the youth’s life 
little better than that of a soldier in his barrack. 
Many boys would have grown hardy, aggressive, 
callous, and very possibly vicious from being thrown 
out on the world so early. Young Graham became 
reticent and to superficial observers shy. Those 
who cared to observe him closely, however, dis- 
covered that it was not diffidence, but indifference 


lO 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS, 


toward others that characterized his manner. In 
the most impressible period of his life he had re- 
ceived instruction, advice, and discipline in abun- 
dance, but love and sympathy had been denied. 
Unconsciously his heart had become chilled, be- 
numbed, and overshadowed by his intellect. The 
actual world gave him little and seemed to promise 
less, and, as a result not at all unnatural, he became 
something of a recluse and bookworm even before 
he had left behind him the years of boyhood. 

Both comrades and teachers eventually learned 
that the retiring and solitary youth was not to be 
trifled with. He looked his instructor steadily in 
the eye when he recited, and while his manner was 
respectful, it was never deferential, nor could he be 
induced to yield a point, when believing himself in 
the right, to mere arbitrary assertion ; and some- 
times he brought confusion to his teacher by quoting 
in support of his own view some unimpeachable 
authority. 

At the beginning of each school term there were 
usually rough fellows who thought the quiet boy 
could be made the subject of practical jokes and 
petty annoyances without much danger of re- 
taliation. Graham would usually remain patient 
up to a certain point, and then, in dismay and 
astonishment, the offender would suddenly And 
himself receiving a punishment which he seemed 
powerless to resist. Blows would fall like hail, or if 
the combatants closed in the struggle, the aggressor 
appeared to find in Graham’s slight form sinew and 
fury only. It seemed as if the lad’s spjxit broke 


EMBODIMENT OF MA Y. 


II 


forth in such a flame of indignation that no one 
could withstand him. It was also remembered that 
while he was not noted for prowess on the play- 
ground, few could surpass him in the gymnasium, 
and that he took long solitary rambles. Such of 
his class-mates, therefore, as were inclined to quarrel 
with him because of his unpopular ways soon learned 
that he kept up his muscle with the best of them, 
and that, when at last roused, his anger struck like 
lightning from a cloud. 

During the latter part of his college course he 
gradually formed a strong friendship for a young 
man of a different type, an ardent sunny-natured 
youth, who proved an antidote to his morbid tenden- 
cies. They went abroad together and studied for two 
years at a German university, and then Warren Hil- 
land, Graham’s friend, having inherited large wealth, 
returned to his home. Graham, left to himself, 
delved more and more deeply in certain phases of 
sceptical philosophy. It appeared to him that in 
the past men had believed almost everything, and 
that the heavier the drafts made on credulity the 
more largely had they been honored. The two 
friends had long since resolved that the actual and 
the proved should be the base from which they 
would advance into the unknown, and they dis- 
carded with equal indifference unsubstantiated the- 
ories of science and what they were pleased to 
term the illusions of faith. “ From the verge of 
the known explore the unknown,” was their motto, 
and it had been their hope to spend their lives in 
extending the outposts of accurate knowledge, in 


12 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


some one or two directions, a little beyond the 
points already reached. Since the scalpel and 
microscope revealed no soul in the human mechan- 
ism they regarded all theories and beliefs concern- 
ing a separate spiritual existence as mere assump- 
tion. They accepted the materialistic view. To 
them each generation was a link in an endless chain, 
and man himself wholly the product of An evolution 
which had no relations to a creative mind, for they 
had no belief in the existence of such a mind. 
They held that one had only to live wisely and 
well, and thus transmit the principle of life, not only 
unvitiated, but strengthened and enlarged. Sins 
against body and mind were sins against the race, 
and it was their creed that the stronger, fuller, and 
more nearly complete they made their lives the richer 
and fuller would be the life that succeeded them. 
They scouted, as utterly unproved and irrational, 
the idea that they could live after death, excepting 
as the plant lives by adding to the material life and 
well-being of other plants. But at that time the 
spring and vigor of youth were in their heart and 
brain, and it seemed to them a glorious thing to 
live and do their part in the advancement of the 
race toward a stage of perfection not dreamed of by 
the unthinking masses. 

Alas for their visions of future achievement ! 
An avalanche of wealth had overwhelmed Hilland. 
His letters to his friend had grown more and more 
infrequent, and they contained many traces of the 
business cares aad the distractions inseparable from 
his possessions and new relations. And now for 


AJV EMBODIMENT OF MA Y. 


13 


causes just the reverse Graham also was forsaking 
his studies. His modest inheritance, invested chief- 
ly in real estate, had so far depreciated that ap- 
parently it could not much longer provide for even 
his frugal life abroad. 

“ I must give up my chosen career for a life of 
bread-winning," he had concluded sadly, and he 
was ready to avail himself of any good opening that 
offered. Therefore he knew not where his lot 
would be cast on the broad continent beyond the 
revolving light that loomed every moment more 
distinctly in the west. 

A few days later found him at the residence of 
Mrs. Mayburn, a pretty cottage in a suburb of an 
eastern city. This lady was his aunt by marriage, 
and had long been a widow. She had never mani- 
fested much interest in her nephew, but since she 
was his nearest relative he felt that he could not do 
less than call upon her. To his agreeable surprise 
he found that time had mellowed her spirit and 
softened her angularities. After the death of her 
husband she had developed unusual ability to take 
care of herself, and had shown little disposition to 
take care of any one else. Her thrift and economy 
had greatly enhanced her resources, and her in- 
vestments had been profitable, while the sense of 
increasing abundance had had a happy effect on her 
character. Within the past year she had purchased 
the dwelling in which she now resided, and to which 
she welcomed Graham with unexpected warmth. 
So far from permitting him to make simply a 
formal call, she insisted on an extended visit. 


14 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


and he, divorced from his studies and therefore 
feeling his isolation more keenly than ever before, 
assented. 

“ My home is accessible,*’ she said, “ and from 
this point you can make inquiries and look around 
for business opportunities quite as well as from a 
city hotel.” 

She was so cordial, so perfectly sincere, that for 
the first time in his life he felt what it was to have 
kindred and a place in the world that was not 
purchased. 

He had found his financial affairs in a much 
better condition than he had expected. Some im- 
provements were on foot which promised to advance 
the value of his real estate so largely as to make him 
independent, and he was much inclined to return to 
Germany and resume his studies. 

” I will rest and vegetate for a time,” he con- 
cluded. ” I will wait till my friend Hilland returns 
from the West, and then, when the impulse of work 
takes possession of me again, I will decide upon my 
course.” 

He had come over the ocean to meet his fate, 
and not the faintest shadow of a presentiment of 
this truth crossed his mind as he looked tranquilly 
from his aunt’s parlor window at the beautiful May 
sunset. The cherry blossoms were on the wane, 
and the light puffs of wind brought the white petals 
down like flurries of snow ; the plum-trees looked 
as if the snow had clung to every branch and spray, 
and they were as white as they could have been 
after some breathless, large-flaked December storm ; 


AN EMBODIMENT OE MA Y. 


15 


but the great apple-tree that stood well down the 
path was the crowning product of May. A more ex- 
quisite bloom of pink and white against an emerald 
foil of tender young leaves could not have existed 
even in Eden, nor could the breath of Eve have 
been more sweet than the fragrance exhaled. The 
air was soft with summer-like mildness, and the 
breeze that fanned Graham’s cheek brought no 
sense of chilliness. The sunset hour, with its spring 
beauty, the song of innumerable birds, and espe- 
cially the strains of a wood-thrush, that, like a prima 
donnay trilled her melody, clear, sweet, and distinct 
above the feathered chorus, penetrated his soul with 
subtle and delicious influences. A vague longing 
for something he had never known or felt, for some- 
thing that books had never taught, or experimental 
science revealed, throbbed in his heart. He felt 
that his life was incomplete, and a deeper sense 
of isolation came over him than he had ever ex- 
perienced in foreign cities where every face was 
strange. Unconsciously he was passing under the 
most subtle and powerful of all spells, that of 
spring, when the impulse to mate comes not to 
the birds alone. 

It so happened that he was in just the condition 
to succumb to this influence. His mental tension 
was relaxed. He had sat down by the wayside 
of life to rest awhile. He had found that there was 
no need that he should bestir himself in money- 
getting, and his mind refused to return immediately 
to the deep abstractions of science. It pleaded 
weariness of the world and of the pros and cons of 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


i6 

conflicting theories and questions. He admitted 
the plea and said : — 

‘ ‘ My mind shall rest, and for a few days, possibly 
weeks, it shall be passively receptive of just such in- 
fluences as nature and circumstances chance to bring 
to it. Who knows but that I may gain a deeper in- 
sight into the hidden mysteries than if I were delving 
among the dusty tomes of a university library ? For 
some reason I feel to-night as if I could look at that 
radiant, fragrant apple-tree and listen to the lullaby 
of the birds forever. And yet their songs suggest a 
thought that awakens an odd pain and dissatisfac- 
tion. Each one is singing to his mate. Each one 
is giving expression to an overflowing fulness and 
completeness of life ; and never before have I felt 
my life so incomplete and isolated. 

“ I wish Hilland was here. He is such a true 
friend that his silence is companionship, and his 
words never jar discordantly. It seems to me that 
I miss him more to-night than I did during the 
first days after his departure. It’s odd that I 
should. H wonder if the friendship, the love of a 
wom^n could be more to me than that of Hilland. 
What was that paragraph from Emerson that once 
struck me so forcibly? My aunt is a woman of 
solid reading ; she must have Emerson. Yes, here 
in her bookcase, meagre only in the number of 
volumes it contains, is what I want,” and he turned 
the leaves rapidly until his eyes lighted on the 
following passage : — 

” No man ever forgot the visitations of that 
power to his heart and brain which created all 


AN EMBODIMENT OF MA Y. 


17 


things new ; which was the dawn in him of music, 
poetry, and art ; which made the face of nature 
radiant with purple light, the morning and the night 
varied enchantments ; when a single tone of one 
voice could make the heart bound, and. the most 
trivial circumstance associated with one form was put 
in the amber of memory ; when he became all eye 
when one was present, and all memory when one 
was gone. ' ’ 

“ Emerson never learned that at a university, 
German or otherwise. He writes as if it were a 
common human experience, and yet I know no 
more about it than of the sensations of a man who 
has lost an arm. I suppose losing one’s heart is 
much the same. As long as a man’s limbs are 
intact he is scarcely conscious of them, but when 
one is gone it troubles him all the time, although 
it isn’t there. Now when Hilland left me I felt 
guilty at the ease with which I could forget him in 
the library and laboratory. I did not become all 
memory. I knew he was my best, my only friend ; 
he is still, but he is not essential to my life. Clear- 
ly, according to Emerson, I am as ignorant as a 
child of one of the deepest experiences of life, and 
very probably had better remain so, and yet the 
hour is playing strange tricks with my fancy.” 

Thus it may be perceived that Alford Graham 
was peculiarly open on this deceitful May evening, 
which promised peace and security, to the impend- 
ing stroke of fate. Its harbinger first appeared 
in the form of a white Spitz dog, barking viva- 
ciously under the apple-tree, where a path from a 


8 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


neighboring residence intersected the walk leading 
from Mrs, Mayburn’s cottage to the street. Evi- 
dently some one was playing with the little creature, 
and was pretending to be kept at bay by its bel- 
ligerent attitude. Suddenly there was a rush and 
a flutter of white draperies, and the dog retreated 
toward Graham, barking with still greater excite- 
ment. Then the young man saw coming up the 
path with quick, lithe tread, sudden pauses, and 
little impetuous dashes at her canine playmate, a 
being that might have been an emanation from the 
radiant apple-tree, or, rather, the human embodi- 
ment of the blossoming period of the year. Her 
low wide brow and her neck were snowy white, and 
no pink petal on the trees above her could surpass 
the bloom on her cheeks. Her large, dark, lustrous 
eyes were brimming over with fun, and unconscious 
of observation, she moved with the natural, unstud- 
ied grace of a child. 

Graham thought, “ No scene of nature is complete 
without the human element, and now the very 
genius of the hour and season has appeared and he 
hastily concealed himself behind the curtains, un- 
willing to lose one glimpse of a picture that made 
every nerve tingle with pleasure. His first glance 
had revealed that the fair vision was not a child, but 
a tall, graceful girl, who happily had not yet passed 
beyond the sportive impulses of childhood. 

Every moment she came nearer, until at last she 
stood opposite the window. He could see the blue 
veins branching across her temples, the quick rise 
and fall of her bosom, caused by rather violent exer- 


AN EMBODIMENT OF MA Y. 


19 


tion, the wavy outlines of light brown hair that was 
gathered in a Greek coil at the back of the shapely 
head. She had the rare combination of dark eyes 
and light hair which made the lustre of her eyes all 
the more striking. He never forgot that moment 
as she stood panting before him on the gravel walk, 
her girlhood’s grace blending so harmoniously with 
her budding womanhood. For a moment the 
thought crossed his mind that under the spell of the 
spring evening his own fancy had created her, and 
that if he looked away and turned again he would 
see nothing but the pink and white blossoms, and 
hear only the jubilant song of the birds. 

The Spitz dog, however, could not possibly have 
any such unsubstantial origin, and this small Cer- 
berus had now entered the room, and was barking 
furiously at him as an unrecognized stranger. A 
moment later his vision under the window stood in 
the doorway. The sportive girl was transformed at 
once into a well-bred young woman who remarked 
quietly, ‘ ‘ I beg your pardon. I expected to find Mrs. 
Mayburn here and she departed to search for that 
lady through the house with a prompt freedom 
which suggested relations of the most friendly 
intimacy. 


CHAPTER II. 


MERE FANCIES. 

RAHAM’S disposition to make his aunt a visit 
^ was not at all chilled by the discovery that she 
had so fair a neighbor. He was conscious of little 
more than an impulse to form the acquaintance of 
one who might give a peculiar charm and piquancy 
to his May-day vacation, and enrich him with an 
experience that had been wholly wanting in his 
secluded and studious life. With a smile he per- 
mitted the fancy — for he was in a mood for all sorts 
of fancies on this evening — that if this girl could 
teach him to interpret Emerson’s words, he would 
make no crabbed resistance. And yet the remote 
possibility of such an event gave him a sense of 
security, and prompted him all the more to yield 
himself for the first time to whatever impressions a 
young and pretty woman might be able to make 
upon him. His very disposition toward experiment 
and analysis inclined him to experiment with him- 
self. Thus it would seem that even the perfect even- 
ing, and the vision that had emerged from under the 
apple-boughs, could not wholly banish a tendency 
to give a scientific cast to the mood and fancies of 
the hour. 


MERE FANCIES, 


21 


His aunt now summoned him to the supper-room, 
where he was formally introduced to Miss Grace 
St. John, with whom his first meal under his rela- 
tive’s roof was destined to be taken. 

As may naturally be supposed, Graham was not 
well furnished with small talk, and while he had not 
the proverbial shyness and awkwardness of the 
student, he was somewhat silent because he knew 
not what to say. The young guest was entirely at 
her ease, and her familiarity with the hostess en- 
abled her to chat freely and naturally on topics of 
mutual interest, thus giving Graham time for those 
observations to which all are inclined when meeting 
one who has taken a sudden and strong hold upon 
the attention. 

He speedily concluded that she could not be less 
than nineteen or twenty years of age, and that she 
was not what he would term a society girl, — a type 
that he had learned to recognize from not a few 
representatives of his countrywomen whom he had 
seen abroad, rather than from much personal ac- 
quaintance. It should not be understood that he 
had shunned society altogether, and his position 
had ever entitled him to enter the best ; but the 
young women whom it had been his fortune to 
meet had failed to interest him as completely as he 
had proved himself a bore to them. Their worlds 
were too widely separated for mutual sympathy ; 
and after brief excursions among the drawing-rooms 
to which Hilland had usually dragged him, he re- 
turned to his books with a deeper satisfaction and 
content. Would his acquaintance with Miss St. 


22 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


John lead to a like result ? He was watching and 
waiting to see, and she had the advantage — if it 
was an advantage — of making a good first impres- 
sion. 

Every moment increased this predisposition in 
her favor. She must have known that she was very 
attractive, for few girls reach her age without attain- 
ing such knowledge ; but her observer, and in a 
certain sense her critic, could not detect the faint- 
est trace of affectation or self-consciousness. Her 
manner, her words, and even their accent seemed 
unstudied, unpractised, and unmodelled after any 
received type. Her glance was peculiarly open and 
direct, and from the first she gave Graham the 
feeling that she was one who might be trusted ab- 
solutely. That she had tact and kindliness also was 
evidenced by the fact that she did not misunderstand 
or resent his comparative silence. At first, after 
learning that he had lived much abroad, her manner 
toward him had been a little shy and wary, indi- 
cating that she may have surmised that his reticence 
was the result of a certain kind of superiority which 
travelled men — especially young men- -often assume 
when meeting those whose lives are supposed to 
have a narrow horizon ; but she quickly discovered 
that Graham had no foreign-bred pre-eminence to 
parade, — that he wanted to talk with her if he could 
only find some common subject of interest. This 
she supplied by taking him to ground with which 
he was perfectly familiar, for she asked him to tell 
her something about university life in Germany. 
On such a theme he could converse well, and be- 


MERE FANCIES. 


23 


fore long a fire of eager questions proved that he 
had not only a deeply interested listener but also a 
very intelligent one. 

Mrs. Mayburn smiled complacently, for she had 
some natural desire that her nephew should make a 
favorable impression. In regard to Miss St. John 
she had long ceased to have any misgivings, and 
the approval that she saw in Graham ’s» eyes was 
expected as a matter of course. This approval she 
soon developed into positive admiration by leading 
her favorite to speak of her own past. 

“ Grace, you must know, Alford, is the daughter 
of an army officer, and has seen some odd phases of 
life at the various military stations where her father 
has been on duty." 

These words piqued Graham's curiosity at once, 
and he became the questioner. His own frank 
effort to entertain was now rewarded, and the 
young girl, possessing easy and natural powers of 
description, gave sketches of life at military posts 
which to Graham had more than the charm of 
novelty. Unconsciously she was accounting for 
herself. In the refined yet unconventional society 
of officers and their wives she had acquired the 
frank manner so peculiarly her own But the char- 
acteristic which won Graham’s interest mosc strong- 
ly was her abounding mirthfulness. It ran through 
all her words like a golden thread. The instinctive 
craving of every nature is for that which supple^ 
ments itself, and Graham found something so genial 
in Miss St. John’s ready smile and laughing eyes, 
which suggested an over-full fountain of joyousness 


24 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


within, that his heart, chilled and repressed from 
childhood, began to give signs of its existence, even 
during the first hour of their acquaintance. It is 
true, as we have seen, that he was in a very re- 
ceptive condition, but then a smile, a glance that 
is like warm sunshine, is never devoid of power. 

The long May twilight had faded, and they were 
still lingering over the supper-table, when a middle- 
aged colored woman in a flaming red turban ap- 
peared in the doorway and said, “ Pardon, Mis' 
Mayburn ; Tse a hopin’ you’ll ’scuse me. I jes step 
over to tell Miss Grace dat de major’s po’ful oneasy, 
— ’spected you back afo’.” 

The girl arose with alacrity, saying, “ Mr. 
Graham, you have brought me into danger, and 
must now extricate me. Papa is an inveterate 
whist-player, and you have put my errand here 
quite out of my mind. I didn’t come for the sake 
of your delicious mufflns altogether,” — with a nod, 
at her hostess ; “ our game has been broken up, you 
know, Mrs. Mayburn, by the departure of Mrs. 
Weeks and her daughter. You have often played 
a good hand with us, and papa thought you would 
come over this evening, and that you, from your 
better acquaintance with our neighbors, might know 
of some one who enjoyed the game sufflciently to 
join us quite often. Mr. Graham, you must be the 
one I am seeking. A gentleman versed in the 
lore of two continents certainly understands whist, 
or, at least, can penetrate its mysteries at a single 
sitting.” 

” Suppose I punish the irony of your concluding 


MERE FANCIES. 


25 


words,” Graham replied, “by saying that I know 
just enough about the game to be aware how much 
skill is required to play with such a veteran as your 
father.” 

” If you did you would punish papa also, who is 
innocent.” 

” That cannot be thought of, although, in truth, 
I play but an indifferent game. If you will make 
amends by teaching me I will try to perpetrate as 
few blunders as possible. ’ ’ 

” Indeed, sir, you forget. You are to make 
amends for keeping me talking here, forgetful of 
filial duty, by giving me a chance to teach you. 
You are to be led meekly in as a trophy by which 
I am to propitiate my stern parent, who has military 
ideas of promptness and obedience:” 

” What if he should place me under arrest ?” 

” Then Mrs. Mayburn and I will become your 
jailers, and we shall keep you here until you are 
one of the most accomplished whist-players in the 
land.” 

” If you will promise to stand guard over me 
some of the time I will submit to any conditions.” 

“You are already making one condition, and may 
think of a dozen more. It will be better to parole 
you with the understanding that you are to put in 
an appearance at the hour for whist ;” and with 
similar light talk they went down the walk under 
the apple-boughs, whence in Graham's fancy the 
fair girl had had her origin. As they passed 
under the shadow he saw the dusky outline of a 
rustic seat leaning against the bole of the tree, and 


26 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


he wondered if he should ever induce his present 
guide through the darkened paths to come there 
some moonlight evening, and listen to the fancies 
which her unexpected appearance had occasioned. 
The possibility of such an event in contrast with its 
far greater improbability caused him to sigh, and 
then he smiled broadly at himself in the dark- 
ness. 

When they had passed a clump of evergreens, a 
lighted cottage presented itself, and Miss St. John 
sprang lightly up the steps, pushed open the hall 
door, and cried through the open entrance to a cosey 
apartment, “ No occasion for hostilities, papa. I 
have made a capture that gives the promise of 
whist not only this evening but also for several more 
to come.” 

As Graham and Mrs. Mayburn entered, a tall, 
white-haired man lifted his foot from off a cushion, 
and rose with some little difficulty, but having 
gained his feet, his bearing was erect and soldier- 
like, and his courtesy perfect, although toward 
Mrs. Mayburn it was tinged with the gallantry of 
a former generation. Some brief explanations fol- 
lowed, and then Major St. John turned upon Graham 
the dark eyes which his daughter had inherited, and 
which seemed all the more brilliant in contrast with 
his frosty eyebrows, and said genially, “It is very 
kind of you to be willing to aid in beguiling an 
old man’s tedium.” Turning to his daughter he 
added a little querulously, “ There must be a storm 
brewing, Grace,” and he drew in his breath as if 
in pain. 


MERE FANCIES. 


27 


** Does your wound trouble you to-night, papa ?" 
she asked gently. 

“ Yes, just as it always does before a storm.” 

It is perfectly clear without,” she resumed. 
” Perhaps the room has become a little cold. The 
evenings are still damp and chilly ;” and she threw 
two or three billets of wood on the open fire, kin- 
dling a blaze that sprang cheerily up the chim- 
ney. 

The room seemed to be a combination of parlor 
and library, and it satisfied Graham’s ideal of a 
living apartment. Easy-chairs of various patterns 
stood here and there and looked as if constructed 
by the very genius of comfort. A secretary in the 
corner near a window was open, suggesting absent 
friends and the pleasure of writing to them amid 
such agreeable surroundings. Again Graham que- 
ried, prompted by the peculiar influences that had 
gained the mastery on this tranquil but eventful 
evening, ” Will Miss St. John ever sit there penning 
words straight from her heart to me ?” 

He was brought back to prose and reality by the 
major. Mrs. Mayburn had been condoling with 
him, and he now turned and said, ” I hope, my 
dear sir, that you may never carry around such a 
barometer as I am afflicted with. A man with an 
infirmity grows a little egotistical, if not worse.” 

“You have much consolation, sir, in remembering 
how you came by your infirmity,” Graham replied. 
” Men bearing such proofs of service to their coun- 
try are not plentiful in our money-getting land.” 

His daughter’s laugh rang out musically as she 


28 


ms SOMBRE RIVALS. 


cried, “ That was meant to be a fine stroke of 
diplomacy. Papa, you will now have to pardon a 
score of blunders.” 

” I have as yet no proof that any will be made,” 
the major remarked, and in fact Graham had un- 
derrated his acquaintance with the game. He 
was quite equal to his aunt in proficiency, and 
with Miss St. John for his partner he was on his 
mettle. He found her skilful indeed, quick, pene- 
trating, and possessed of an excellent memory. 
They held their own so well that the major’s spirits 
rose hourly. He forgot his wound in the complete 
absorption of his favorite recreation. 

As opportunity occurred Graham could not keep 
his eyes from wandering here and there about the 
apartment that had so taken his fancy, especially 
toward the large, well-filled bookcase and the pict- 
ures, which, if not very expensive, had evidently 
been the choice of a cultivated taste. 

They were brought to a consciousness of the flight 
of time by a clock chiming out the hour of eleven, 
and the old soldier with a sigh of regret saw Mrs. 
Mayburn rise. Miss St. John touched a silver bell, 
and a moment later the same negress who had 
reminded her of her father’s impatience early in the 
evening entered with a tray bearing a decanter of 
wine, glasses, and some wafer-like cakes. 

” Have I earned the indulgence of a glance at 
your books?” Graham asked. 

“ Yes, indeed,” Miss St. John replied; “your 
martyr-like submission shall be further rewarded by 
permission to borrow any of them while in town. 


MERE FANCIES. 


29 


I doubt, however, if you will find them profound 
enough for your taste/' 

“ I shall take all point from your irony by asking 
if you think one can relish nothing but intellectual 
roast beef. I am enjoying one of your delicate 
cakes. You must have an excellent cook. ” 

‘ ‘ Papa says he has, in the line of cake and pastry ; 
but then he is partial." 

“ What ! did you make them ?" 

"Why not?" 

" O, I’m not objecting. Did my manners per- 
mit, I’d empty the plate. Still, I was under the 
impression that young ladies were not adepts in this 
sort of thing." 

"You have been abroad so long that you may 
have to revise many of your impressions. Of course 
retired army officers are naturally in a condition to 
import chefs de cuisiney but then we like to keep up 
the idea of republican simplicity." 

" Could you be so very kind as to induce your 
father to ask me to make one of your evening quar- 
tette as often as possible ?" 

"•The relevancy of that request is striking. Was 
it suggested by the flavor of the cakes ? I some- 
times forget to make them." 

" Their absence would not prevent my taste from 
being gratified if you \5^ill permit me to come. 
Here is a marked volume of Emerson’s works. Ma}^ 
I take it for a day or two ?" 

She blushed slightly, hesitated perceptibly, and 
then said, "Yes." 

"Alford," broke in his aunt, “ you students have 


HTS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


the name of being great owls, but for an old woman 
of my regular habits it’s getting late.” 

“ My daughter informs me,” the major remarked 
to Graham in parting, “ that we may be able to 
induce you to take a hand with us quite often. If 
you should ever become as old and crippled as 
I am you will know how to appreciate such kind- 
ness.” 

“ Indeed, sir. Miss St. John must testify that I 
asked to share your game as a privilege. I can 
scarcely remember to have passed so pleasant an 
evening.” 

“ Mrs. Mayburn, do try to keep him in this 
amiable frame of mind,” cried the girl. 

“I think I shall need your aid,” said that lady, 
with a smile. “ Come, Alford, it is next to im- 
possible to get you away.” 

“ Papa’s unfortunate barometer will prove cor- 
rect, I fear,” said Miss St. John, following them 
out on the piazza, for a thin scud was already veil- 
ing the stars, and there was an ominous moan of the 
wind. 

“To-morrow will be a stormy day,” remarked 
Mrs. Mayburn, who prided herself on her weather 
wisdom. 

“ I’m sorry,” Miss St. John continued, “ for it 
will spoil our fairy world of blossoms, and I am still 
more sorry for papa’s sake.” 

“ Should the day prove a long, dismal, rainy 
one,” Graham ventured, “ may I not come over 
and help entertain your father?” 

“Yes,” said the girl, earnestly. ” It cannot seem 


MERE FANCIES. 


31 


strange to you that time should often hang heavily 
on his hands, and I am grateful to any one who helps 
me to enliven his hours.” 

Before Graham repassed under the apple-tree 
boughs he had fully decided to win at least Miss St. 
John’s gratitude. 


CHAPTER III. 


THE VERDICT OF A SAGE. 


HEN Graham reached his room he was in no 



V V mood for sleep. At first he lapsed into a 
long revery over the events of the evening, trivial 
in themselves, and yet for some reason holding a 
controlling influence over his thoughts. Miss St. 
John was a new revelation of womanhood to him, 
and for the first time in his life his heart had been 
stirred by a woman’s tones and glances. A deep 
chord in his nature vibrated when she spoke and 
smiled. What did it mean ? He had followed his 
impulse to permit this stranger to make any impres- 
sion within her power, and he found that she had 
decidedly interested him. As he tried to analyze 
her power he concluded that it lay chiefly in the 
mirthfulness, the joyousness of her spirit. She 
quickened his cool, deliberate pulse. Her smile was 
not an affair of facial muscles, but had a vivifying 
warmth. It made him suspect that his life was 
becoming cold and self-centred, that he was missing 
the deepest and best experiences of an existence that 
was brief indeed at best, and, as he believed, soon 
ceased forever. The love of study and ambition 


THE VERDICT OF A SAGE. 


33 


had sufficed thus far, but actuated by his own 
materialistic creed he was bound to make the most 
of life while it lasted. According to Emerson he 
was as yet but in the earlier stages of evolution, and 
his highest manhood wholly undeveloped. Had 
not “ music, poetry, and art” dawned in his mind ? 
Was nature but a mechanism after whose laws he 
had been groping like an anatomist who finds in the 
godlike form bone and tissue merely ? As he had 
sat watching the sunset a few hours previous, the 
element of beauty had been present to him as never 
before. Could this sense of beauty become so en- 
larged that the world would be transfigured,” radiant 
with purple light” ? Morning had often brought to 
him weariness from sleepless hours during which he 
had racked his brain over problems too deep for 
him, and evening had found him still baffled, dis- 
appointed, and disposed to ask in view of his toil. 
Cut bono ? What ground had Emerson for saying 
that these same mornings and evenings might be 
filled with ” varied enchantments” ? The reason, 
the cause of these unknown conditions of life was 
given unmistakably. The Concord sage had vir- 
tually asserted that he, Alford Graham, would never 
truly exist until his one-sided masculine nature had 
been supplemented by the feminine soul which alone 
could give to his being completeness and the power 
to attain his full development. 

” Well,” he soliloquized, laughing, ”I have not 
been aware that hitherto I have been only a mol- 
lusk, a polyp of a man. I am inclined to think that 
Emerson’s ‘ Pegasus ’ took the bit, — got the better 


34 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


of him on one occasion ; but if there is any truth in 
what he writes it might not be a bad idea to try a 
little of the kind of evolution that he suggests and 
see what comes of it. I am already confident that 
I could see infinitely more than I do if I could look 
at the world through Miss St. John’s eyes as well 
as my own, but I run no slight risk in obtaining 
that vision. Her eyes are stars that must have 
drawn worshippers, not only from the east, but from 
every point of the compass. I should be in a sorry 
plight if I should become ‘ all memory,’ and from 
my fair divinity receive as sole response, ‘ Please 
forget.’ If the philosopher could guarantee that 
she also would be ‘ all eye and all memory,’ one 
might indeed covet Miss St. John as the teacher of 
the higher mysteries. Life is not very exhilarating 
at best, but for a man to set his heart on such a 
woman as this girl promises to be, and then be 
denied, — why, he had better remain a polyp. Come, 
come, Alford Graham, you have had your hour 
of sentiment, — out of deference to Mr. Emerson I 
won’t call it weakness, — and it’s time you remem- 
bered that you are a comparatively poor man, that 
Miss St. John has already been the choice of a 
score at least, and probably has made her own 
choice. I shall therefore permit no delusions and 
the growth of no false hopes.” 

Having reached this prudent conclusion, Graham 
yawned, smiled at the unwonted mood in which he 
had indulged, and with the philosophic purpose of 
finding an opiate in the pages that had contained 
one paragraph rather too exciting, he took up the 


THE VERDICT OF A SAGE. 


35 


copy of Emerson that he had borrowed. The book 
fell open, indicating that some one had often turned 
to the pages before him. One passage was strongly 
marked on either side and underscored. With a 
laugh he saw that it was the one he had been dwell- 
ing upon, — “ No man ever forgot," etc. 

" Now I know why she blushed slightly and 
hesitated to lend me this volume," he thought. 
" I suppose I may read in this instance, ‘ No woman 
ever forgot. ' Of course, it would be strange if she 
had not learned to understand these words. What 
else has she marked ?" 

Here and there were many delicate marginal lines 
indicating approval and interest, but they were so 
delicate as to suggest that the strong scoring of the 
significant passage was not the work of Miss St. 
John, but rather of some heavy masculine hand. 
This seemed to restore the original reading, "No 
man ever forgot," and some man had apparently 
tried to inform her by his emphatic lines that he 
did not intend to forget. 

" Well, suppose he does not and cannot," Graham 
mused. " That fact places her under no obligations 
to be ‘ all eye and memory’ for him. And yet her 
blush and hesitancy and the way the book falls open 
at this passage look favorable for him. I can win 
her gratitude by amusing the old major, and with 
that, no doubt, I shall have to be content." 

This limitation of his chances caused Graham so 
little solicitude that he was soon sleeping soundly. 


CHAPTER IV. 


WARNING OR INCENTIVE? 

HE next morning proved that the wound which 



JL Major St. John had received in the Mexican 
war was a correct barometer. From a leaden, low- 
ering sky the rain fell steadily, and a chilly wind 
was fast dismantling the trees of their blossoms. 
The birds had suspended their nest-building, and 
but few had the heart to sing. 

“You seem to take a very complacent view of 
the dreary prospect without,” Mrs. Mayburn re- 
marked, as Graham came smilingly into the break- 
fast-room and greeted her with a cheerful note in 
his tones. “ Such a day as this means rheumatism 
for me and an aching leg for Major St. John.” 

“I am very sorry, aunt,” he replied, “but I 
cannot help remembering also that it is not alto- 
gether an ill wind, for it will blow me over into a 
cosey parlor and very charming society, — that is, if 
Miss St. John will give me a little aid in entertain- 
ing her father.” 

“ So we old people don’t count for anything.” 

“ That doesn’t follow at all. I would do any- 
thing in my power to banish your rheumatism and 


tVAJiNING OR INCENTIVE ? 


37 


the major’s twinges, but how was it with you both 
at my age ? I can answer for the major. If at that 
time he knew another major with such a daughter 
as blesses his home, his devotion to the preceding 
veteran was a little mixed.” 

” Are you so taken by Miss St. John T* 

” I have not the slightest hope of being taken by 
her.” 

“You know what I mean ?” 

“Yes, but I wished to suggest my modest hopes 
and expectations so that you may have no anxieties 
if I avail myself, during my visit, of the chance of 
seeing what I can of an unusually fine girl. Ac- 
quaintance with such society is the part of my edu- 
cation most sadly neglected. Nevertheless, you will 
find me devotedly at your service whenever you 
will express your wishes.” 

“Do not imagine that I am disposed to find' 
fault. Grace is a great favorite of mine. She is a 
good old-fashioned girl, not one of your vain, heart- 
less, selfish creatures with only a veneer of good 
breeding. I see her almost every day, either here 
or in her own home, and I know her well. You 
have seen that she is fitted to shine anywhere, but 
it is for her home qualities that I love and admire 
her most. Her father is crippled and querulous ; 
indeed he is often exceedirjgly irritable. Every- 
thing must please him or else he is inclined to storm 
as he did in his regiment, and occasionally he em- 
phasizes his words without much regard to the third 
commandment. But his gusts of anger are ovet 
quickly, and a kinder-hearted and more upright man 


38 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


never lived. Of course American servants won't 
stand harsh words. They want to do all the fault- 
finding, and the poor old gentleman would have a 
hard time of it were it not for Grace. She knows 
how to manage both him and them, and that colored 
woman you saw wouldn’t leave him if he beat and 
swore at her every day. She was a slave in the fam- 
ily of Grace’s mother, who was a Southern lady, and 
the major gave the poor creature her liberty when 
he brought his wife to the North. Grace is sunshine 
embodied. She makes her old, irritable, and some- 
times gouty father happy in spite of himself. It 
was just like her to accept of your offer last evening, 
for to banish all dulness from her father’s life seems 
her constant thought. So if you wish to grow in 
the young lady’s favor don’t be so attentive to her 
as to neglect the old gentleman.” 

Graham listened to this good-natured gossip with 
decided interest, feeling that it contained valuable 
suggestions. The response seemed scarcely relevant. 
“ When is she to be married ?” he asked. 

’’ Married !” 

‘‘Yes. It is a wonder that such a paragon has 
escaped thus long.” 

‘‘You have lived abroad too much,” said his aunt 
satirically. ” American girls are not married out of 
hand at a certain age. They marry when they 
please or not at all if they please. Grace easily 
escapes marriage.” 

‘‘ Not from want of suitors, I’m sure.” 

‘‘You are right there.” 

‘‘ How then ?” 


WARNING OR INCENTIVE ? 


39 


** By saying, ‘ No, I thank you/ You can easily 
learn how very effectual such a quiet negative is, if 
you choose.” 

” Indeed ! Am I such a very undesirable party ?’* 
said Graham, laughing, for he heartily enjoyed his 
aunt’s brusque way of talking, having learned al- 
ready the kindliness it masked. 

” Not in my eyes. I can’t speak for Grace. 
She’d marry you if she Moved you, and were you 
the Czar of all the Russias you wouldn’t have the 
ghost of a chance unless she did. I know that she 
has refused more than one fortune. She seems 
perfectly content to live with her father, until the 
one prince having the power to awaken her ap- 
pears. When he comes rest assured she’ll follow 
him, and also be assured that she’ll take her father 
with her, and to a selfish, exacting Turk of a hus- 
band he might prove an old man of the sea. And 
yet I doubt it. Grace would manage any one. Not 
that she has much management either. She simply 
laughs, smiles, and talks every one into good humor. 
Her mirthfulness, her own happiness, is so genuine 
that it is contagious. Suppose you exchange duties 
and ask her to come over and enliven me while you 
entertain her father,” concluded the old lady mis- 
chievously. 

” I would not dare to face such a fiery veteran as 
you have described alone.” 

” I knew you would have some excuse. Well, 
be on your guard. Grace will make no effort to 
capture you, and therefore you will be in* all the 
more danger of being captured. If you lose your 


40 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


heart in vain to her you will need more than German 
philosophy to sustain you.” 

” I have already made to myself in substance your 
last remark.” 

” I know you are not a lady's man, and perhaps 
for that very reason you are all the more liable to an 
acute attack.” 

Graham laughed as he rose from the table, and 
asked, ” Should I ever venture to lay siege to Miss 
St. John, would I not have your blessing ?” 

” Yes, and more than my blessing.” 

” What do you mean by more than your blessing ?” 

I shall not commit myself until you commit 
yourself, and I do not wish you to take even the 
first step without appreciating the risk of the ven- 
ture.” 

“Why, bless you, aunt,” said Graham, now 
laughing heartily, “ how seriously you take it ! I 
have spent but one evening with the girl.” 

The old lady nodded her head significantly as she 
replied, “ I have not lived to my time of life with- 
out learning a thing or two. My memory also has 
not failed as yet. • There were young men who 
looked at me once just as you looked at Grace last 
evening, and I know what came of it in more than 
one instance. You are safe now, and you may be 
invulnerable, although it does not look like it ; but 
if you can see much of Grace St. John and remain 
untouched you are unlike most men.” 

“ I have always had the name of being that, you 
know. But as the peril is so great had I not better 
fly at once ?” 


WARNING OR INCENTIVE ? 41 

‘‘Yes, I think we both have had the name of 
being a little peculiar, and my brusque, direct way 
of coming right to the point is one of my peculiari- 
ties. r am very intimate with the St. Johns, and 
am almost as fond of Grace as if she were my own 
child. So of course you can see a great deal of her 
if you wish, and this arrangement about whist will 
add to your opportunities. I know what young 
men are, and I know too what often happens when 
their faces express as much admiration and interest 
as yours did last night. What's more,” continued 
the energetic old lady with an emphatic tap on 'the 
floor with her foot, and a decided nod of her head, 
“if I were a young man, Grace would have to 
marry some one else to get rid of me. Now I’ve 
had my say, and my conscience is clear, whatever 
happens. As to flight, why, you must settle that 
question, but I am sincere and cordial in my request 
that you make your home with me until you decide 
upon your future course.” 

Graham was touched, and he took his aunt’s hand 
as he said, “ I thank you for your kindness, and 
more than all for your downright sincerity. When 
I came here it was to make but a formal call. 
With the exception of one friend, I believed that 
I stood utterly alone in the world, — that no one 
cared about what I did or what became of me. I 
was accustomed to isolation and thought I was 
content with it, but I find it more pleasant than 
I can make you understand to know there is one 
place in the world to which I can come, not as 
a stranger to an inn, but as one that is received 


42 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


for other than business considerations. Since you 
have been so frank with me I will be equally out- 
spoken and he told her just how he was situ- 
ated, and what were his plans and hopes. • Now 
that I know there is no necessity of earning my 
livelihood,” he concluded, I shall yield to my 
impulse to rest awhile, and then quite probably 
resume my studies here or abroad until I can obtain 
a position suited to my plans and taste. I thank 
you for your note of alarm in regard to Miss St. 
John, although I must say that to my mind there 
is more of incentive than of warning in your words. 
I think I can at least venture on a few reconnois- 
sances, as the maj or might say, before I beat a 
retreat. Is it too early to make one now ?” 

Mrs. Mayburn smiled. No,” she said, laconi- 
cally. 

I see that you think my reconnoissance will lead 
to a siege,” Graham added. “Well, I can at least 
promise that there shall be no rash movements.” 


CHAPTER V. 


IMPRESSIONS. 



RAHAM, smiling at his aunt and still more 


VJT amused at himself, started to pay his morn- 
ing visit. “ Yesterday afternoon,” he thought, I 
expected to make but a brief call on an aunt who 
was almost a stranger to me, and now I am domi- 
ciled under ’ her roof indefinitely. She has intro- 
duced me to a charming girl, and in an ostensible 
warning shrewdly inserted the strongest incentives 
to venture everything, hinting at the same time that 
if I succeeded she would give me more than her 
blessing. What a vista of possibilities has opened 
since I crossed her threshold ! A brief time since I 
was buried in German libraries, unaware of the 
existence of Miss St. John, and forgetting that of 
my aunt. Apparently I have crossed the ocean to 
meet them both, for had I remained abroad a few 
days longer, letters on the way would have pre- 
vented my returning. Of course it is all chance, 
but a curious chance. I don’t wonder that people 
are often superstitious ; and yet a moment’s reason- 
ing proves the absurdity of this sort of thing. 
Nothing truly strange often happens, and only our 


44 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


egotism invests events of personal interest with a 
trace of the marvellous. My business man neg- 
lected to advise me of my improved finances as soon 
as he might have done. My aunt receives me, not 
as I expected, but as one would naturally hope to 
be met by a relative. She has a fair young neighbor 
with whom she is intimate, and whom I meet as a 
matter of course, and as a matter of course I can 
continue to meet her as long as I choose without 
becoming ^ all eye and all memory. ’ Surely a 
man can enjoy the society of any woman with- 
out the danger my aunt suggests and — as I half 
believe — would like to bring about. What signify 
my fancies of last evening? We often enjoy im- 
agining what might be without ever intending it 
shall be. At any rate I shall not sigh for Miss St. 
John or any other woman until satisfied that I should 
not sigh in vain. The probabilities are therefore 
that I shall never sigh at all.” 

As he approached Major St. John's dwelling he 
saw the object of his thoughts standing by the 
window and reading a letter. A syringa shrub 
partially concealed him and his umbrella, and he 
could not forbear pausing a moment to note what 
a pretty picture she made. A sprig of white flowers 
was in her light wavy hair, and another fastened by 
her breastpin drooped over her bosom. Her morn- 
ing wrapper was of the hue of the sky that lay back 
of the leaden clouds. A heightened color mantled 
her cheeks, her lips were parted with a smile, and 
her whole face was full of delighted interest. 

‘‘By Jove!” muttered Graham. “Aunt May^ 


IMF/^ESS/OATS. 


45 


burn is half right, I believe. A man must have the 
pulse of an anchorite to look often at such a vision 
as that and remain untouched. One might easily 
create a divinity out of such a creature, and then 
find it difficult not to worship. I could go away 
now and make her my ideal, endowing her with all 
impossible attributes of perfection. Very probably 
fuller acquaintance will prove that she is made of 
clay not differing materially from that of othef 
womankind. I envy her correspondent, however, 
and would be glad if I could write a letter that 
would bring such an expression to her face. Well, 
I am reconnoitering true enough, and had better 
not be detected in the act and he stepped rapidly 
forward. 

She recognized him with a piquant little nod and 
smile. The letter was folded instantly, and a 
moment later she opened the door for him herself, 
saying, ‘‘ Since I have seen you and you have come 
on so kind an errand I have dispensed with the for- 
mality of sending a servant to admit you.” 

Won’t you shake hands as a further reward?” 
he asked. You will find me very mercenary.” 

“ O, certainly. Pardon the oversight. I should 
have done so without prompting since it is so long 
since we have met.” 

** And having known each other so long also,” he 
added in the same light vein, conscious meantime 
that he held a hand that was as full of vitality as it 
was shapely and white. 

Indeed,” she replied ; ‘‘ did last evening seem 
an age to you ?” 


46 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


I tried to prolong it, for you must remember 
that my aunt said that she could not get me away ; 
and this morning I was indiscreet enough to wel- 
come the rain, at which she reminded me of her 
rheumatism and your father’s wound.” 

And at which I also hope you had a twinge or 
two of conscience. Papa,” she added, leading the 
way into the parlor, ** here is Mr. Graham. It was 
his fascinating talk about life in Germany that so 
delayed me last evening.” 

The old gentleman started out of a doze, and his 
manner proved that he welcomed any break in the 
monotony of the day. “You will pardon my not 
rising,” he said ; “ this confounded weather is play- 
ing the deuce with my leg.” 

Graham was observant as he joined in a general 
condemnation of the weather ; and the manner in 
which Miss St. John rearranged the cushion on 
which her father’s foot rested, coaxed the fire into 
a more cheerful blaze, and bestowed other little 
attentions, proved beyond a doubt that all effort in 
behalf of the suffering veteran would be appre- 
ciated. Nor was he so devoid of a kindly good- 
nature himself as to anticipate an irksome task, 
and he did his utmost to discover the best methods 
of entertaining his host. The effort soon became 
remunerative, for the major had seen much of life, 
and enjoyed reference to his experiences. Graham 
found that he could be induced to fight his battles 
over again, but always with very modest allusion to 
himself. In the Course of their talk it also became 
evident that he was a man of somewhat extensive 


• IMPRESSIONS. 


47 


reading, and the daily paper must have been almost 
literally devoured to account for his acquaintance 
with contemporary affairs. The daughter was often 
not a little amused at Graham’s blank looks as her 
father broached topics of American interest which 
to the student from abroad were as little known or 
understood as the questions which might have been" 
agitating the inhabitants of Jupiter. Most ladies 
would have been politely oblivious of her guest’s 
blunders and infelicitous remarks, but Miss St. John 
had a frank, merry way of recognizing them, and 
yet malice and ridicule were so entirely absent from 
her words and ways that Graham soon positively 
enjoyed being laughed at, and much preferred her 
delicate open raillery, which gave him a chance to 
defend himself, to a smiling mask that would leave 
him in uncertainty as to the fitness of his replies. 
There was a subtle flattery also in this course, for 
she treated him as one capable of holding his own, 
and not in need of social charity and protection. 
With pleasure he recognized that she was adopting 
toward him something of the same sportive manner 
which characterized her relations with his aunt, 
and which also indicated that as Mrs. Mayburn’s 
nephew he had met with a reception which would 
not have been accorded to one less favorably intro- 
duced. 

How vividly in after years Graham remembered 
that rainy May morning ! He could always call up be- 
fore him, like a vivid picture, the old major with his 
bushy white eyebrows and piercing black eyes, the 
smoke from his meerschaum creating a sort of halo 


48 


ms SOMBRE RIVALS. 


around his gray head, the fine, venerable face often 
drawn by pain which led to half-muttered impreca- 
tions that courtesy to his guest and daughter could 
not wholly suppress. How often he saw again the 
fire curling softly from the hearth with a contented 
crackle, as if pleased to be once more an essential to 
the home from which the advancing summer would 
soon banish it ! He could recall every article of the 
furniture with -which he afterward became so famil- 
iar. But that which was engraven on his memory 
forever was a fair young girl sitting by the window 
with a background of early spring greenery swaying 
to and fro in the storm. Long afterward, when 
watching on the perilous picket line or standing in 
his place on the battle-field, he would close his eyes 
that he might recall more vividly the little white 
hands deftly crocheting on some feminine mystery, 
and the mirthful eyes that often glanced from it td 
him as the quiet flow of their talk rippled on. A 
rill, had it conscious life, would never forget the 
pebble that deflected its course from one ocean to 
another ; human life as it flows onward cannot fail 
to recognize events, trivial in themselves, which 
nevertheless gave direction to all the future. 

Graham admitted to himself that he had found a 
charm at this fireside which he had never enjoyed 
elsewhere in society, — the pleasure of being perfectly 
at ease. There was a genial frankness and sim- 
plicity in his entertainers which banished restraint, 
and gave him a sense of security. He felt instinc- 
tively that there were no adverse currents of mental 
criticism and detraction, that they were loyal to him 


IMPRESSIONS. 


49 


as their invited guest, notwithstanding jest, banter, 
and good-natured satire. 

The hours had vanished so swiftly that he was at 
a loss to account for them. Miss St. John was a 
natural foe to dulness of all kinds, and this too 
without any apparent effort. Indeed, we are rarely 
entertained by evident and deliberate exertion. 
Pleasurable exhilaration in society is obtained from 
those who impart, like warmth, their own spon- 
taneous vivacity. Miss St. John’s smile was an 
antidote for a rainy day, and he was loath to pass 
from its genial power out under the dripping clouds. 
Following an impulse, he said to the girl, “You are 
more than a match for the weather.” 

These words were spoken in the hall after he had 
bidden adieu to the major. 

“ If you meant a compliment it is a very doubtful 
one,” she replied, laughing. “ Do you mean that I 
am worse than the weather which gives papa the 
horrors, and Mrs. Mayburn the rheumatism ?” 

“ And me one of the most delightful mornings I 
ever enjoyed,” he added, interrupting her. “ You 
were in league with your wood fire. The garish sun- 
shine of a warm day robs a house of all cosiness and 
snugness. Instead of being depressed by the storm 
and permitting others to be dull, you have the art of 
making the clouds your foil.” 

“ Possibly I may appear to some advantage 
against such a dismal background,” she admitted. 

“ My meaning is interpreted by my unconscion- 
ably long visit. I now must reluctantly retreat into 
the dismal background.” 


50 


ms SOMBRE RIVALS. 


‘ ‘ A rather well-covered retreat, as papa might 
say, but you will need your umbrella all the same 
for he, in looking back at the archly smiling girl, had 
neglected to open it. 

“ I am glad it is not a final retreat,'’ he called 
back. “ I shall return this evening reinforced by 
my aunt.” 

“Well,” exclaimed that lady when he appeared 
before her, “ lunch has been waiting ten minutes or 
more.” 

“ I feared as much,” he replied, shaking his head 
ruefully. 

“ What kept you ?” * 

“ Miss St. John.” 

“Not the major? I thought you went to enter- 
tain him.” 

“ So I did, but man proposes — ” 

“ O, not yet, I hope,” cried the old lady with 
assumed dismay. “ I thought you promised to do 
nothing rash.” 

“You are more precipitate than I have been. 
All that I propose is to enjoy my vacation and the 
society of your charming friend.” 

“ The major ?” she suggested. 

“ A natural error on your part, for I perceived he 
was very gallant to you. After your remarks, how- 
ever, you cannot think it strange that I found the 
daughter more interesting, — so interesting indeed 
that I have kept you waiting for lunch. I’ll not 
repeat the offence any oftener than I can help. At 
the same time I find that I have not lost my ap- 
petite, or anything else that I am aware of.” 


/MFl?ESSIOJVS. 


51 

“How did Grace appear?" his aunt asked as 
they sat down to lunch. 

“ Like herself. ” 

“ Then not like any one else you know?” 

“ We agree here perfectly.” 

“ You have no fear?" 

“ No, nor any hopes that I am conscious of. ^ 
Can I not admire your paragon to your heart's 
content without insisting that she bestow upon 
me the treasures of her life? Miss St. John has a 
frank, cordial manner all her own, and I think also 
that for your sake she has received me rather 
graciously, but I should be blind indeed did I not 
recognize that it would require a siege to win her ; 
and that would be useless, as you said, unless her 
own heart prompted the surrender. I have heard 
and read that many women are capable of passing 
fancies of which adroit suitors can take advantage, 
and they are engaged or married before fully com- 
prehending what it all means. Were Miss St. John 
of this class I should still hesitate to venture, for 
nothing in my training has fitted me to take an 
advantage of a lady's mood. I don’t think your 
favorite is given to fancies. She is too well poised. 
Her serene, laughing confidence, her more than con- 
tent, comes either from a heart already happily given, 
or else from a nature so sound and healthful that 
life in itself is an unalloyed joy. She impresses me 
as the happiest being I ever met, and as such it is a 
delight to be in her presence ; but if I should ap- 
proach her as a lover, something tells me that I 
should find her like a snowy peak, warm and rose- 


52 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


tinted in the sunlight, as seen in the distance, but 
growing cold as you draw near. There may be 
subterranean fires, but they would manifest them- 
selves from some inward impulse. At least I do 
not feel conscious of any power to awaken them.’* 

Mrs. Mayburn shook her head ominously. 

“You are growing very fanciful,” she said, 
“ which is a sign, if not a bad one. Your metaphors, 
too, are so far-fetched and extravagant as to indicate 
the earliest stages of the divine madness. Do you 
mean to suggest that Grace will break forth like a 
volcano on some fortuitous man ? If that be your 
theory you would stand as good a chance as any 
one. She might break forth on you.” 

“ I have indeed been unfortunate in my illustra- 
tion, since you can so twist my words even in jest. 
Here’s plain enough prose for you. No amount of 
wooing would make the slightest difference unless 
by some law or impulse of her own nature Miss St. 
John was compelled to respond.” 

“ Is n’t that true of every woman ?” 

“ I don’t think it is.” 

“ How is it that you are so versed in the mysteries 
of the feminine soul ?” 

“ I have not lived altogether the life of a monk, 
and the history of the world is the history of women 
as well as of men. I am merely giving the impres- 
sion that has been made upon me.” 


CHAPTER VI. 


PHILOSOPHY AT FAULT. 

I F Mrs. Mayburn had fears that her nephew’s 
peace would be affected by his exposure to 
the fascinations of Miss St. John, they were quite 
allayed by his course for the next two or three 
weeks. If she had indulged the hope that he would 
speedily be carried away by the charms which 
seemed to her irresistible, and so give the chance of 
a closer relationship with her favorite, she saw lit- 
tle to encourage such a hope beyond Graham’s 
evident enjoyment in the young girl’s society, and 
his readiness to seek it on all fitting occasions. He 
played whist assiduously, and appeared to enjoy the 
game. He often spent two or three hours with the 
major during the day, and occasionally beguiled the 
time by reading aloud to him, but the element of 
gallantry toward the daughter seemed wanting, and 
the aunt concluded, “ No woman can rival a book 
in Alford’s heart, — that is, if he has one, — and he is 
simply studying Grace as if she were a book. There 
is one symptom, however, that needs explanation, — 
he is not so ready to talk about her as at first, and 
I don’t believe that indifference is. the cause.” 


54 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


She was right : indifference was not the cause. 
Graham’s interest in Miss St. John was growing 
deeper every day, but the stronger the hold she 
gained upon his thoughts, the less inclined was he 
to speak of her. He was the last man in the world 
to be carried away by a Romeo-like gust of passion, 
and no amount of beauty could hold his attention 
an hour, did not the mind ray through it with a 
sparkle and power essentially its own. 

Miss St. John had soon convinced him that she 
could do more than look sweetly and chatter. She 
could not only talk to a university-bred man, but 
also tell him much that was new. He found his 
peer, not in his lines of thought, but in her own, 
and he was so little of an egotist that he admired 
her all the more because she knew what he did not, 
and could never become an echo of himself. In her 
world she had been an intelligent observer and 
thinker, and she interpreted that world to him as 
naturally and unassumingly as a flower blooms and 
exhales its fragrance. For the first time in his life 
he gave himself up to the charm of a cultivated 
woman’s society, and to do this in his present lei- 
sure seemed the most sensible thing possible. 

One can see a rare flower,” he had reasoned, 
“without wishing to pluck it, or hear a wood-thrush 
sing without straightway thinking of a cage. Miss 
St. John’s affections may be already engaged, or I 
may be the last person in the world to secure them. 
Idle fancies of what she might become to me are 
harmless enough. Any man is prone to indulge in 
these when seeing a woman who pleases his taste 


PHILOSOPHY AT FAULT. 


55 


and kindles his imagination. When it comes to 
practical action one may expect and desire nothing 
more than the brightening of one's wits and the 
securing of agreeable pastime. I do not see why I 
should not be entirely content with these motives, 
until my brief visit is over, notwithstanding my 
aunt’s ominous warnings and so without any 
misgivings he had at first yielded himself to all the 
spells that Miss St. John might unconsciously 
weave. 

As time passed, however, he began to doubt 
whether he could maintain his cool, philosophic 
attitude of enjoyment. He found himself growing 
more and more eager for the hours to return when 
he could seek her society, and the intervening time 
was becoming dull and heavy-paced. The im- 
pulse to go back to Germany and to resume his 
studies was slow in coming. Indeed, he was at last 
obliged to admit to himself that a game of whist 
with the old major had more attractions than the 
latest scientific treatise. Not that he doted on the 
irascible veteran, but because he thus secured a fair 
partner whose dark eyes were beaming with mirth 
and intelligence, whose ever-springing fountain of 
happiness was so full that even in the solerr\nity of 
the game it found expression in little piquant ges- 
tures, brief words, and smiles that were like glints 
of sunshine. Her very presence lifted him to a 
higher plane, and gave a greater capacity for enjoy- 
ment, and sometimes simply an arch smile or an 
unexpected tone set his nerves vibrating in a man- 
ner as delightful as it was unexplainable by any 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


56 

past experience that he could recall. She was a 
good walker and horsewoman, and as their acquaint- 
ance ripened he began to ask permission to join her 
in her rides and rambles. She assented without the 
slightest hesitancy, but he soon found that she gave 
him no exclusive monopoly of these excursions, and 
that he must share them with other young men. 
Her absences from home were always comparatively 
brief, however, and that which charmed him most 
was her sunny devotion to her invalid and often very 
irritable father. She was the antidote to his age 
and to his infirniities of body and temper. While 
she was away the world in general, and his own little 
sphere in particular, tended toward a hopeless snarl. 
Jinny, the colored servant, was subserviency itself, 
but her very obsequiousness irritated him, although 
her drollery was at times diverting. It was usually 
true, however, that but one touch and one voice 
could soothe the jangling nerves. As Graham saw 
this womanly magic, which apparently cost no more 
effort than the wood fire put forth in banishing 
chilliness and discomfort, the thought would come, 
“ Blessed will be the man who can win her as the 
light and life of his home 

When days passed, and no one seemed to have 
a greater place in her thoughts and interest than 
himself, was it unnatural that the hope should 
dawn that she might create a home for him ? If 
she had a favored suitor his aunt would be apt 
to know of it. She did not seem ambitious, or 
disposed to invest her heart so that it might bring 
fortune and social eminence. Never by word or 


PHILOSOPHY AT FAULT. 


57 


sign had she appeared to chafe at her father’s 
modest competency, but with tact and skill, taught 
undoubtedly by army experience, she made their 
slender income yield the essentials of comfort and 
refinement, and seemed quite indifferent to non- 
essentials. Graham could never hope to possess 
wealth, but he found in Miss St. John a woman 
who could impart to his home the crowning grace of 
wealth, — simple, unostentatious elegance. His aunt 
had said that the young girl had already refused 
more than one fortune, and the accompanying 
assurance that she would marry the man she loved, 
whatever might be his circumstances, seemed verified 
by his own observation. Therefore why might he 
not hope 1 Few men are so modest as not to indulge 
the hope to which their heart prompts them. 
Graham was slow to recognize the existence of this 
hope, and then he watched its growth warily. Not 
for the world would he lose control of himself, not 
for the world would he reveal it to any one, least of 
all to his aunt or to her who had inspired it, unless 
he had some reason to believe she would not dis- 
appoint it. He was prompted to concealment, not 
only by his pride, which, was great, but more by a 
characteristic trait, an instinctive desire to hide his 
deeper feelings, his inner personality from all others. 
He would not admit that he had fallen in love. 
The very ‘phrase was excessively distasteful. To 
his friend Hilland he might have given his con- 
fidence, and he would have accounted for himself 
in some such way as this : — 

“ I have found a child and a woman ; a child 


58 HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 

in frankness and joyousness, a woman in beauty, 
strength, mental maturity, and unselfishness. She 
interested me from the first, and every day I know 
better the reason why, — because she is interest- 
ing. My reason has kept pace with my fancy 
and my deeper feeling, and impels me to seek 
this girl quite as much as does my heart. I do 
not think a man meets such a woman or such a 
chance for happiness twice in a lifetime. I did not 
believe there was such a woman in th^' world. You 
may laugh and say that is the way all lovers talk. 
I answer emphatically. No. I have not yet lost 
my poise, and I never was a predestined lover. I 
might easily have gone through life and never given 
to these subjects an hour’s thought. Even now I 
could quietly decide to go away and take up my old 
life as I left it. But why should I ? Here is an 
opportunity to enrich existence immeasurably, and 
to add to all my chances of success and power. So 
far from being a drag upon one, a woman like Miss 
St. John would incite and inspire a man to his best 
efforts. She would sympathize with him because 
she could understand his aims and keep pace with 
his mental advance. Granted that my prospects of 
winning her are doubtful indeed, still as far as I can 
see thfere is a chance. I would not care a straw for 
a woman that I could have for the asking, ---who 
would take me as a derjiier ressort. Any woman 
that I would marry, many others would gladly 
marry also, and I must take my chance of winning 
her from them. Such would be my lot under any 
circumstances, and if I give way to a faint heart 


PHILOSOPHY AT FAULT. 


59 


now I may as well give up altogether and content 
myself with a library as a bride.” 

Since he felt that he might have taken Hilland 
into his confidence, he had, in terms substantially 
the same as those given, imagined his explana- 
tion, and he smiled as he portrayed .to himself 
his friend's jocular response, which would have 
nevertheless its substratum of true sympathy. 
“ Hilland would say,” he thought, ” ‘That is just 
like you, Graham. You can’t smoke a cigar or 
make love to a girl without analyzing and phil- 
osophizing and arranging all the wisdom of Solomon 
in favor pjf your course. Now I would make love 
to a girl because I loved her, and that would be 
the end on’t.’ ” 

Graham was mistaken in this case. Not in 
laughing sympathy, but in pale dismay, would 
Hilland have received this revelation, for he was 
making love to Grace St. John because he loved her 
with all his heart and soul. There had been a time 
when Graham might have obtained a hint of this 
had circumstances been different, and it had oc- 
curred quite early in his acquaintance with Miss 
St. John. After *a day that had been unusually 
delightful and satisfactory he was accompanying the 
young girl home from his aunt’s cottage in the 
twilight. Out of the complacency of his heart he 
remarked, half to himself, ” If Hilland were only 
here, my vacation would be complete. ' ' 

In the obscurity he could not see her sudden 
burning flush, and since her hand was not on his 
arm he had no knowledge of her startled tremor. 


6o 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


All that he knew was that she was silent for a 
moment or two, and then she asked quietly, “ Is 
Mr. Warren Hilland an acquaintance of yours?” 

” Indeed he is not,” was the emphatic and hearty 
response. ” He is the best friend I have in the 
world, and the best fellow in the world.” 

O fatal obscurity of the deepening twilight ! Miss 
St. John’s face was crimson and radiant with 
pleasure, and could Graham have seen her at that 
moment he could not have failed to surmise the 
truth. 

The young girl was as jealous of her secret as 
Graham soon became of his, and she only remarked 
demurely, ” I have met Mr. Hilland in society,” 
and then she changed the subject, for they were 
approaching the piazza steps, and she felt that if 
Hilland should continue the theme of conversation 
under the light of the chandelier, a telltale face and 
manner would betray her, in spite of all effort at 
control. A fragrant blossom from the shrubbery 
bordering the walk brushed against Graham’s face, 
and he plucked it, saying, ” Beyond that it is fra- 
grant I don’t know what this flower is. Will you 
take it from me ?” 

” Yes,” she said* hesitatingly, for at that moment 
her absent lover had been brought so vividly to her 
consciousness that her heart recoiled from even the 
slightest hint of gallantry from another. A moment 
later the thought occurred, ” Mr. Graham is /its 
dearest friend ; therefore he is my friend, although 
I cannot yet be as frank with him as I would like 
to be.” 


PHILOSOPHY AT FAULT, 6i 

She paused a few moments on the piazza, to cool 
her hot face and quiet her fluttering nerves, and 
Graham saw with much pleasure that she fastened 
the flower to her breastpin. When at last she 
entered she puzzled him a little by leaving him 
rather abruptly at the parlor door and hastening 
up the stairs. 

She found that his words had stirred such deep, 
full fountains that she could not yet trust herself 
under his observant eyes. It is a woman’s delight 
to hear her lover praised by other men, and 
Graham’s words had been so hearty that they had 
set her pulses bounding, for they assured her that 
she had not been deceived by love’s partial eyes. 

“ It’s true, it’s true,” she murmured softly, stand- 
ing with dewy eyes before her mirror. ” He is the 
best fellow in the world, and I was blind that I did 
not see it from the first. But all will yet be well 
and she drew a letter from her bosom and kissed it. 

Happy would Hilland have been had he seen the 
vision reflected by that mirror, — beauty, rich and 
rare in itself, but enhanced, illumined, and made 
divine by the deepest, strongest, purest emotions of 
the soul. 


CHAPTER VII. 


WARREN HILLAND. 

HE closing scenes of the preceding chapter 



JL demand some explanation. Major St. John 
had spent part of the preceding summer at a seaside 
resort, and his daughter had inevitably attracted 
not a little attention. Among those that sought 
her favor was Warren Hilland, and in accordance 
with his nature he had been rather precipitate. He 
was ardent, impulsive, and, indulged from earliest 
childhood, he had been spoiled in only one respect,—- 
when he wanted anything he wanted it with all his 
heart and immediately. Miss St. John had seemed 
to him from the first a pearl among women. As 
with Graham, circumstances gave him the oppor- 
tunity of seeing her daily, and he speedily suc- 
cumbed to the “ visitation of that power” to which 
the strongest must yield. Almost before the young 
girl suspected the existence of his passion, he 
declared it. She refused him, but he would take 
no refusal. Having won from her the admission 
that he had no favored rival, he lifted his handsome 
head with a resolution which she secretly admired, 
and declared that only when convinced that he had 
become hateful to her would he give up his suit. 


IVARREAT HILLAND. 


63 


He was not a man to become hateful to any 
woman. His frank nature was so in accord with 
hers that she responded in somewhat the same 
spirit, and said, half laughingly and half tearfully, 
“ Well, if you will, you will, but I can offer no 
encouragement. ” 

And yet his downright earnestness had agitated 
her deeply, disturbing her maiden serenity, and 
awaking for the first time the woman within her 
heart. Hitherto her girlhood's fancies had been 
like summer zephyrs, disturbing but briefly the still, 
clear waters of her soul ; but now she became an 
enigma to herself as she slowly grew conscious of 
her own heart and the law of her woman’s nature 
to love and give herself to another. But she had 
too much of the doughty old major’s fire and spirit,, 
and was too fond of her freedom, to surrender easily. 
Both Graham and Mrs. Mayburn were right in their 
estimate, — she would never yield her heart unless 
compelled to by influences unexpected, at first un- 
welcomed, but in the end overmastering. 

The first and chief effect of Hilland’s impetuous 
wooing was, as we have seen, to destroy her sense 
of maidenly security, and to bring her face to face 
with her destiny. Then his openly avowed siege 
speedily compelled her to withdraw her thoughts 
from man in the abstract to himself. She could not 
brush him aside by a quiet negative, as she had al- 
ready done in the case of several others. Clinging to 
her old life, however, and fearing to embark on this 
unknown sea of new experiences, she hesitated, and 
would not commit herself until the force that im- 


64 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


pelled was greater than that which restrained. He at 
last had the tact to understand her and to recognize 
that he had spoken to a girl, indeed almost a child, 
and that he must wait for the woman to develop. 
Hopeful, almost confident, for success and pros- 
perity had seemingly made a league with him in all 
things, he was content to wait. The major had 
sanctioned his addresses from the first, and he 
sought to attain his object by careful and skilful 
approaches. He had shown himself such an im- 
petuous wooer that she might well doubt his per- 
sistence ; now he would prove himself so patient 
and considerate that she could not doubt him. 

When they parted at the seaside Hilland was 
called to the far West by important business in- 
terests. In response to his earnest pleas, in which 
he movingly portrayed his loneliness in a rude 
mining village, she said he might write to her occa- 
sionally, and he had written so quietly and sensibly, 
so nearly as a friend might address a friend, that 
she felt there could be no harm in a correspondence 
of this character. During the winter season their 
letters had grown more frequent, and he with con- 
summate skill had gradually tinged his words with 
a warmer hue. She smiled at his artifice. There was 
no longer any need of it, for by the wood fire, when 
all the house was still and wrapped in sleep, she had 
become fully revealed unto herself. She found that 
she had a woman’s heart, and that she had given it 
irrevocably to Warren Hilland. 

She did not tell him so, — far from it. The secret 
seemed so strange, so wonderful, so exquisite in its 


WARREN HILL AND. 


65 

blending of pain and pleasure, that she did not tell 
any one. Hers was not the nature that could babble 
of the heart’s deepest mysteries to half a score of 
confidants. To him first she would make the su- 
preme avowal that she had become his by a sweet 
compulsion that had at last proved irresistible, and 
even he must again seek that acknowledgment 
directly, earnestly.- He was left to gather what 
hope he could from the fact that she did* not resent 
his warrher expressions, and this leniency from a girl 
like Grace St. John meant so much to him that he 
did gather hope daily. Her letters were not near- 
ly so frequent as his, but when they did come he 
fairly gloated over them. They were so fresh, 
crisp, and inspiring that they reminded him of the 
seaside breezes that had quickened his pulses with 
health and pleasure during the past summer. She 
wrote in an easy, gossiping style of the books she 
was reading, of the good things in the art and 
literary journals, and of such questions of the day 
as would naturally interest her, and he so gratefully 
assured her that by this course she kept him within 
the pale of civilization, that she was induced to 
write oftener. In her effort to gather material 
that would interest him, life gained a new and 
richer zest, and she learned how the kindling flame 
within her heart could illumine e^en common 
things. Each day brought such a wealth of joy 
that it was like a new and glad surprise. The 
page she read had not only the interest imparted 
to it by the author, but also the far greater charm 
of suggesting thoughts of him or for him ; and so 


66 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS, 


began an interchange of books and periodicals, 
with pencillings, queries, marks of approval and 
disapproval. “ I will show him,” she had resolved, 

that I am not a doll to be petted, but a woman 
who can be his friend and companion.’- 

And she proved this quite as truly by her ques- 
tions, her intelligent interest in his mining pursuits 
and the wild region of his sojourn, as by her words 
concerning that with which she was familiar. 

It was hard for Hilland to maintain his reti- 
cence or submit to the necessity of his long ab- 
sence. She had revealed the rich jewel of her mind 
so fully that his love had increased with time and 
separation, and he longed to obtain the complete 
assurance of his happiness. And yet not for the 
world would he again endanger his hopes by rash- 
ness. He ventured, however, to send the copy of 
Emerson with the quotation already given strongly 
underscored. Since she made no allusion to this in 
her subsequent letter, he again grew more wary, but 
as spring advanced the tide of feeling became too 
strong to be wholly repressed, and words indicating 
his passion would slip into his letters in spite of 
himself. She saw what was coming as truly as she 
saw all around her the increasing evidences of the 
approach of summer, and no bird sang with a fuller 
or more joyous note than did her heart at the 
prospect. 

Graham witnessed this culminating happiness, 
and it would have been well for him had he known 
its source. Her joyousness had seemed to him a 
characteristic trait, and so it was, but he could not 


. WARDEN- ffILLAl\rD, 


67 


know how greatly it was enhanced by a cause that 
would have led to very different action on his part. 

Hilland had decided that he would not write to 
his friend concerning his suit until his fate was 
decided in one way or the other. In fact, his 
letters had grown rather infrequent, not from wan- 
ing friendship, but rather because their mutual 
interests had drifted apart. Their relations were 
too firmly established to need the aid of correspond- 
ence, and each knew that when they met again 
they would resume their old ways. In the sympa- 
thetic magnetism of personal presence confidences 
would be given that they would naturally hesitate 
to write out in cool blood. 

Thus Graham was left to drift and philosophize at 
first. But his aunt was right : he could not daily see 
one who so fully satisfied the cravings of his nature 
and coolly consider the pros and cons. He was one 
who would kindle 'slowly, but it would be an an- 
thracite flame that would burn on while life lasted. 

He felt that he had no reason for discouragement, 
for she seemed to grow more kind and friendly every 
day. This was true of her manner, for, looking, 
upon him as Hilland’s best friend, she gave him a 
genuine regard, but it was an esteem which, like 
reflected light, was devoid of the warmth of affec- 
tion that comes direct from the heart. 

She did not suspect the feeling that at last began 
to deepen rapidly, nor had he any adequate idea of 
its strength. When a grain of corn is planted it is 
the hidden root that first develops, and the con- 
trolling influence of his life was taking root in 


68 


ms SOMBRE RIVALS, 


Graham’s heart. If he did not fully comprehend 
this at an early day it is not strange that she did 
not. She had no disposition to fall in love with 
every interesting man she met, and it seemed 
equally absurd to credit the gentlemen of her ac- 
quaintance with any such tendency. Her manner, 
therefore, toward the other sex was characterized 
by a frank, pleasant friendliness which could be mis- 
taken for coquetry by only the most obtuse or the 
most conceited of men. With all his faults Graham 
was neither stupid nor vain. He understood her re- 
gard, and doubted whether he could ever change its 
character. He only hoped that he might, and until 
he saw a better chance for this he determined not 
to reveal himself, fearing that if he did so it might 
terminate their acquaintance. 

“ My best course,” he reasoned, ” is to see her as 
often as possible, and thus give her the opportunity 
to know me well. If I shall ev'er have any power 
to win her love, she, by something in her manner or 
tone, will unconsciously reveal the truth to me. 
Then I will not be slow to act. Why should I lose 
the pleasure of these golden hours by seeking open- 
ly that which as yet she has not the slightest dis- 
position to give ?” 

This appeared to him a safe and judicious pol- 
icy, and yet it may well be doubted whether it 
would ever have been successful with Grace St. 
John, even had she been as fancy free as when 
Hilland first met her. She was a soldier’s daughter, 
and could best be won by Hilland ’s soldier-like 
wooing. Not that she could have been won any 


WARREN HILLAND. 


69 


more readily by direct and impetuous advances 
had not her heart been touched, but the probabili- 
ties are that her heart never would have been 
touched by Graham’s army-of-observation tactics. It 
would scarcely have occurred to her to think seri- 
ously of a man who did not follow her with an eager 
quest. 

On the other hand, as his aunt had suggested from 
the first, poor Graham was greatly endangering his 
peace by this close study of a woman lovely in 
herself, and, as he fully believed, peculiarly adapted 
to satisfy every requirement of his nature. A man 
who knows nothing of a hidden treasure goes un- 
concernedly on his way ; if he discovers it and then 
loses it he feels impoverished. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


SUPREME MOMENTS. 

RAH AM’S visit was at last lengthened to a 



VJT month, and yet the impulse of work or of de- 
parture had not seized him. Indeed, there seemed 
less prospect of anything of the kind than ever. A 
strong mutual attachment was growing between 
himself and his aunt. The brusque, quick-witted 
old lady interested him, while her genuine kindness 
and hearty welcome gave to him, for the first time in 
his life, the sense of being at home. She was a 
woman of strong likes and dislikes. She had taken a 
fancy to Graham from the first, and this interest 
fast deepened into affection. She did not know how 
lonely she was in her isolated life, and she found it 
so pleasant to have some one to look after and 
think about that she would have been glad to have 
kept him with her always. 

Moreover, she had a lurking hope, daily gaining 
confirmation, that her nephew was not so indifferent 
to her favorite as he seemed. In her old age she 
was beginning to long for kindred and closer ties, 
and she felt that she could in effect adopt Grace, 
and could even endure the invalid major for the 


SUPREME MOMENTS, 


71 


sake of one who was so congenial. She thought it 
politic, however, to let matters take their own 
course, for her strong good sense led her to believe 
that meddling rarely accomplishes anything except 
mischief. She was not averse to a little indirect 
diplomacy, however, and did all in her power to 
make it easy and natural for Graham to see the 
young girl as often as possible, and one lovely day, 
early in June, she planned a little excursion, which, 
according to the experience of her early days, 
promised well for her aims. 

One breathless June morning that was warm, but 
not sultry, she went over to the St. Johns’, and 
suggested a drive to the brow of a hill from 
which there was a superb view of the surrounding 
country. The plan struck the major pleasantly, 
and Grace was delighted. She had the craving 
for out-of-door life common to all healthful natures, 
but there was another reason why she longed for 
a day under the open sky with her thoughts par- 
tially and pleasantly distracted from one great truth 
to which she felt she must grow accustomed by 
degrees. It was arranged that they should take 
their lunch and spend the larger part of the after- 
noon, thus giving the affair something of the aspect 
of a quiet little picnic. 

Although Graham tried to take the proposition 
quietly, he could not repress a flush of pleasure 
and a certain alacrity of movement eminently sat- 
isfactory to his aunt. Indeed, his spirits rose to a 
degree that made him a marvel to himself, and he 
wonderingly queried, ‘‘ Can I be the same man who 


72 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS, 


but a few weeks since watched the dark line of my 
native country loom up in the night, and with pros- 
pects as vague and dark as that outline ?” 

Miss St. John seemed perfectly radiant that morn- 
ing, her eyes vying with the June sunlight, and her 
cheeks emulating the roses everywhere in bloom. 
What was the cause of her unaffected delight? 
Was it merely the prospect of a day of pleasure in 
the woods ? Could he hope that his presence 
added to her zest for the occasion ? Such were 
the questions with which Graham’s mind was busy 
as he aided the ladies in their preparations. She 
certainly was more kind and friendly than usual, — ^ 
yes, more familiar. He was compelled to admit, how- 
ever, that her manner was such as would be natural 
toward an old and trusted friend, but he hoped 
— never before had he realized how dear this hope 
was becoming — that some day she would awaken to 
the consciousness that he might be more than a 
friend. In the mean time he would be patient, and, 
with the best skill he could master, endeavor to win 
her favor, instead of putting her on the defensive by 
seeking her love. 

“ Two elements cannot pass into combination 
until there is mutual readiness,” reasoned the 
scientist. Contact is not combination. My prov- 
ince is to watch until in some unguarded moment 
she gives the hope that she would listen with her 
heart. To speak before that, either by word or 
action, would be pain to her and humiliation to 
me.” 

The gulf between them was wide indeed, although 


SUPREME MOMENTS. 


73 


she smiled so genially upon him. In tying up a 
bundle their hands touched. He felt an electric 
thrill in all his nerves ; she only noticed the circum- 
stance by saying, “ Who is it that is so awkward, 
you or I ?” 

N You are Grace,” he replied. ** It was I.” 

I should be graceless indeed were I to find fault 
with anything to-day,” she said impulsively, and 
raising her head she looked away into the west as if 
her thoughts had followed her eyes. 

It certainly is a very fine day,” Graham re- 
marked sententiously. 

She turned suddenly, and saw that he was watch- 
ing her keenly. Conscious of her secret she blushed 
under his detected scrutiny, but laughed lightly, say- 
ing, “ You are a happy man, Mr. Graham, for you 
suggest that perfect weather leaves nothing else to 
be desired.” 

Many have to be content with little else,” he 
replied, ‘‘and days like this are few and far be- 
tween.” 

“Not few and far between for me,” ahe mur- 
mured to herself as she moved away. 

She was kinder and more friendly to Graham than 
ever before, but the cause was a letter received that 
morning, against which her heart now throbbed. 
She had written to Hilland of Graham, and of her 
enjoyment of his society, dwelling slightly on his 
disposition to make himself agreeable without ten- 
dencies toward sentiment and gallantry. 

Love is quick to take alarm, and although 
Graham was his nearest friend, Hilland could not 


74 


ItlS SOMBkE kiVALB. 


endure the thought of leaving the field open to him 
or to any one a day longer. He knew that Graham 
was deliberate and by no means susceptible. And 
yet, to him, the fact conveyed by the letter, that his 
recluse friend had found the society of Grace so 
satisfactory that he had lingered on week after week, 
spoke volumes. It was not like his studious and 
solitary companion of old. Moreover, he understood 
Graham sufficiently well to know that Grace would 
have peculiar attractions for him, and that upon a 
girl of her mind he would make an impression very 
different from that which had led society butterflies 
to shun him as a bore. Her letter already indicated 
this truth. The natural uneasiness that he had felt 
all along lest some master spirit should appear was 
intensified. Although Graham was so quiet and 
undemonstrative, Hilland knew him to be possessed 
of an indomitable energy of will when once it was 
aroused and directed toward an object. Thus far 
from Grace’s letter he believed that his friend was 
only interested in the girl of his heart, and he 
determined to forestall trouble, if possible, and 
secure the fruits of his patient waiting and wooing, if 
any were to be gathered. At the same time he 
resolved to be loyal to his friend, as far as he could 
admit his claims, and he wrote a glo^ying eulogy of 
Graham, unmarred by a phrase or word of detraction. 
Then, as frankly, he admitted his fears, in regard not 
only to Graham, but to others, and followed these 
words with a strong and impassioned plea in his own 
behalf, assuring her that time and absence, so far 
from diminishing her mastery over him, had ren- 


SUPREME MOMENTS. 


75 


dcred it complete. He entreated for permission to 
come to her, saying that his business interests, vast 
as they were, counted as less than nothing compared 
with the possession of her love, — that he would 
have pressed his suit by personal presence long be- 
fore had not obligations to others detained him. 
These obligations he now could and would delegate, 
^for all the wealth of the mines on the continent 
would only be a burden unless she could share it 
with him. He also informed her that a ring made 
of gold, which he himself had mined deep in the 
mountain’s heart, was on the way to her, — that his 
own hands had helped to fashion the rude circlet, — 
and that it was significant of the truth that he sought 
her not from the vantage ground of wealth, but be- 
cause of a manly devotion that would lead him to 
delve in a mine or work in a shop for her, rather 
than live a life of luxury with any one else in the 
world. 

For the loving girl what a treasure was such a 
letter ! The joy it brought was so overwhelming 
that she was glad of the distractions which Mrs. 
Mayburn’s little excursion promised. She wished to 
quiet the tumult at her heart, so that she could write 
as an earnest woman to an earnest man, which she 
could not do on this bright June morning, v^th her 
heart keeping tune with every bird that sang. Such 
a response as she then might have made would have 
been the one he would have welcomed most, but 
she did not think so. I would not for the world 
have him know how my head is turned,” she had 
laughingly assured herself, not dreaming that such 


76 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


an admission would disturb his equilibrium to a far 
greater degree. 

‘‘ After a day,” she thought, out of doors with 
Mrs. Mayburn's genial common-sense and Mr. 
Graham’s cool, half-cynical philosophy to steady 
me, I shall be sane enough to answer.” 

They were soon bowling away in a strong, three- 
seated rockaway, well suited to country roads, 
Graham driving, with the object of his thoughts and 
hopes beside him. Mrs. Mayburn and the major oc- 
cupied the back seat, while Jinny, with a capacious 
hamper, was in the middle seat, and in the estima- 
tion of the diplomatic aunt made a good screen and 
division. 

All seemed to promise well for her schemes, for 
the young people appeared to be getting on wonder- 
fully together. There was a constant succession of 
jest and repartee. Grace was cordiality itself ; and in 
Graham’s eyes that morning there was coming an ex- 
pression of which he may not have been fully aware, 
or which at last he would permit to be seen. In- 
deed, he was yielding rapidly to the spell of her 
beauty and the charm of her mind and manner. He 
was conscious of a strange, exquisite exhilaration. 
Every nerve in his body seemed alive to her 
presence, while the refined and delicate curves of her 
cheek and throat gave a pleasure which no statue 
in the galleries of Europe had ever imparted. 

He wondered at all this, for to him it was indeed 
a new experience. His past with its hopes and am- 
bitions seemed to have floated away to an indefinite 
distance, and he tQ have awakened tg a new life, 


SUPREME MOMENTS. 


77 


new phase of existence. In the exaltation of the 
hour he felt that, whatever might be the result, he 
had received a revelation of capabilities in his na- 
ture of which he had not dreamed, and which at 
the time promised to compensate for any conse- 
quent reaction. He exulted in his human organism 
as a master in music might rejoice over the dis- 
covery of an instrument fitted to respond perfectly 
to his genius. Indeed, the thought crossed his mind 
more than once that day that the marvel of marvels 
was that mere clay could be so highly organized. It 
was not his thrilling nerves alone which suggested 
this thought, or the pure mobile face of the young 
girl, so far removed from any suggestion of earthli- 
ness, but a new feeling, developing in his heart, 
that seemed so deep and strong as to be deathless. 

They reached their destination in safety. The 
June sunlight would have made any place attractive, 
but the brow of the swelling hill with its wide out- 
look, its background of grove and intervening vistas, 
left nothing to be desired. The horses were soon 
contentedly munching their oats, and yet their 
stamping feet and switching tails indicated that even 
for the brute creation there is ever some alloy. 
Graham, however, thought that fortune had at last 
given him one perfect day. There was no percep- 
tible cloud. The present was so eminently satis- 
factory that it banished the past, or, if remembered, 
it served as a foil. The future promised a chance 
for happiness that seemed immeasurable, although 
the horizon of hia brief existence was so near ; for he 
f^lt th^t >vith }ier ^s his own, hurp^r^ life with ^l its 


7S 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


limitations was a richer gift than he had ever imag- 
ined possible. And yet, like a slight and scarcely 
heard discord, the thought would come occasionally, 
“ Since so much is possible, more ought to be possi- 
ble. With such immense capability for life as I am 
conscious of to-day, how is it that this life is but a 
passing and perishing manifestation Y* 

Such impressions took no definite form, however, 
but merely passed through the dim background of 
his consciousness, while he gave his whole soul to 
the effort to make the day one that from its unal- 
loyed pleasure could not fail to recall him to the 
memory of Miss St. John. He believed himself to 
be successful, for he felt as if inspired. He was 
ready with a quick reply to all her mirthful sallies, 
and he had the tact to veil his delicate flattery 
under a manner and mode of speech that suggested 
rather than revealed his admiration. She was 
honestly delighted with him and his regard, as she 
understood it, and she congratulated herself again 
and again that Hilland’s friend was a man that she 
also would find unusually agreeable. His kindness 
to her father had warmed her heart toward him, and 
now his kindness and interest were genuine, al- 
though at first somewhat hollow and assumed. 

Graham had become a decided favorite with the 
old gentleman, for he had proved the most efficient 
ally that Grace had ever gained in quickening the 
pace of heavy-footed Time. Even the veteran’s 
chilled blood seemed to feel the influences of the 
day, and his gallantry toward Mrs. Mayburn was 
more pronounced than usual. We, too, will be 


SUPREME MOMENTS. 79 

young people once more/' he remarked, for the 
opportunity may not come to us again.” 

They discussed their lunch with zest, they smiled 
into one another’s face, and indulged in little pleas- 
antries that were as light and passing as the zephyrs 
that occasionally fluttered the leaves above their 
heads ; but deep in each heart were memories, 
tides of thought, hopes, fears, joys, that form the 
tragic background of all human life. The old major 
gave some reminiscences of his youthful campaign- 
ing. In his cheerful mood his presentation of them 
was in harmony with the sunny afternoon. The 
bright sides of his experiences were toward his 
auditors, but what dark shadows of wounds, agony, 
and death were on the farther side ! And of these he 
could never be quite unconscious, even while awak- 
ening laughter at the comic episodes of war. 

Mrs. Mayburn seemed her plain-spoken, cheery 
self, intent only on making the most of this genial 
hour in the autumn of her life, and yet she was watch- 
ing over a hope that she felt might make her last days 
her best days. She was almost praying that the fair 
girl whom she had so learned to love might become 
the solace of her age, and fill, in her childless heart, 
a place that had ever been an aching void. Miss 
St. John was too preoccupied to see any lover but 
one, and he was ever present, though thousands of 
miles away. But she saw in Graham his friend, and 
had already accepted him also as her most agreeable 
friend, liking him all the better for his apparent 
disposition to appeal only to her fancy and reason, 
instead of her heart. She saw well enough that he 


So 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


liked her exceedingly, but Hilland's impetuous 
wooing and impassioned words had made her feel 
that there was an infinite difference between liking 
and loving ; and she pictured to herself the pleas- 
ure they would both enjoy when finding that their 
seemingly chance acquaintance was but preparation 
for the closer ties which their several relations to 
Hilland could not fail to occasion. 

The object of this kindly but most temperate re- 
gard smiled into her eyes, chatted easily on any 
topic suggested, and appeared entirely satisfied ; but 
was all the while conscious of a growing need which, 
denied, would impoverish his life, making it, brief 
even as he deemed it to be, an intolerable burden. 
But on this summer afternoon hope was in the 
ascendant, and he saw no reason why the craving of 
all that was best and noblest in his nature should 
not be met. When a supreme affection first masters 
the heart it often carries with it a certain assurance 
that there must be a respoi\se, that when so much is 
given by a subtle, irresistible, unexpected impulse, 
the one receiving should, sooner or later, by some 
law of correspondence, be inclined to return a similar 
regard. All living things in nature, when not in- 
terfered with, at the right time and in the right way, 
sought and found what was essential to the com- 
pletion of their life, and he was a part of nature. 
According to the law of his own individuality he had 
yielded to Miss St. John’s power. His reason had 
kept pace with his heart. He had advanced to his 
present attitude toward her like a man, and had not 
been driven to it by the passion of an animal. 


SUPREME MOMENTS. 


8i 


Therefore he was hopeful, self-complacent, and reso- 
lute. He not only proposed to win the girl he 
loved, cost what it might in time and effort, but in 
the exalted mood of the hour felt that he could and 
must win her. 

She, all unconscious, smiled genially, and indeed 
seemed the very embodiment of mirth. Her talk 
was brilliant, yet interspersed with strange lapses 
that began to puzzle him. Meanwhile she scarcely 
saw him, gave him but the passing attention with 
which one looks up from an absorbing story, and all 
the time the letter against which her heart pressed 
seemed alive and endowed with the power to make 
each throb more glad and full of deep content. 

How isolated and inscrutable is the mystery of 
each human life ! Here were four people strongly 
interested in each other and most friendly, between 
whom was a constant interchange of word and glance, 
and yet their thought and feeling were flowing in 
strong diverse currents, unseen and unsuspected. 

As the day declined they all grew more silent and 
abstracted. Deeper shadows crept into the vistas 
of memory with the old, and those who had become 
but memories were with them again as they had been 
on like June days half a century before. With the 
young the future, outlined by hope, took forms so 
absorbing that the present was forgotten. Ostensi- 
bly they were looking off at the wide and diversified 
landscape ; in reality they were contemplating the 
more varied experiences, actual and possible, of 
life. 

At last the major complained querulously that he 


82 


ms SOMBRE RIVALS. 


was growing chilly. The shadow in which he 
shivered was not caused by the sinking sun. 

The hint was taken at once, and in a few moments 
they were on their way homeward. The old spor- 
tive humor of the morning did not return. The 
major was the aged invalid again. Mrs. Mayburn 
and Graham were perplexed, for Grace had seem- 
ingly become remote from them all. She was as 
kind as ever ; indeed her manner was characterized 
by an unusual gentleness ; but they could not but see 
that her thoughts were not with them. The first 
tumultuous torrent of her joy had passed, and with it 
her girlhood. Now, as an earnest woman, she was 
approaching the hour of her betrothal, when she 
would write words that would bind her to another 
and give direction to all her destiny. Her form was 
at Graham’s side ; the woman was not there. 
Whither and to whom had she gone ? The question 
caused him to turn pale with fear. 

Miss Grace,” he said at last, and there was a 
tinge of reproach in his voice, “where are you? 
You left us some time since,” and he turned and 
tried to look searchingly into her eyes. 

She met his without confusion or rise in color. 
Her feelings had become so deep and earnest, so 
truly those of a woman standing on the assured 
ground of fealty to another, that she was beyond her 
former girlish sensitiveness and its quick, involun- 
tary manifestations. She said gently, “ Pardon me, 
Mr. Graham, for my unsocial abstraction. You de- 
serve better treatment for all your efforts for our 
enjoyment to-day.” 


SUPREME MOMENTS. 


83 


‘^Please do not come back on compulsion,” he 
said. ** I do not think I am a natural Paul Pry, 
but I would like to know where you have been.” 

I will tell you some day,” she said, with a smile 
that was so friendly that his heart sprang up in re- 
newed hope. Then, as if remembering what was 
due to him and the others, she buried her thoughts 
deep in her heart until she could be alone with them 
and their object. And yet her secret joy, like a 
hidden fire, tinged all her words with a kindly 
warmth. Graham and his aunt were not only pleased 
but also perplexed, for both were conscious of 
something in Grace’s manner which they could not 
understand. Mrs. Mayburn was sanguine that her 
June-day strategy was bringing forth the much 
desired results ; her nephew only hoped. They all 
parted with cordial words, which gave slight hint of 
that which was supreme in each mind. 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE REVELATION 



RAH AM found letters which required his ab- 


sence for a day or two, and it seemed to him 
eminently fitting that he should go over in the even- 
ing and say good-by to Miss St. John. Indeed he 
was disposed to say more, if the opportunity offered. 
His hopes sank as he saw that the first floor was 
darkened, and in answer to his summons Jinny in- 
formed hin that the major and Miss Grace were 
poTul tired” and had withdrawn to their rooms. 
He trembled to find how deep was his disappoint- 
ment, and understood as never before that his old 
self had ceased to exist. A month since no one 
was essential to him ; now his being had become 
complex. Then he could have crossed the ocean 
with a few easily spoken farewells ; now he could 
not go away for a few hours without feeling that he 
must see one who was then a stranger. The mean- 
ing of this was all too plain, and as he walked 
away in the June starlight he admitted it fully. 
Another life had become essential to his own. And 
still he clung to his old philosophy, muttering, 
“ If this be truCj why will not my life become as 


THE REVELATION. 


25 


needful to her?” His theory, like many another, 
was a product of wishes rather than an induction 
from facts. 

When he returned after a long ramble, the light 
still burning in Miss St. John’s window did not 
harmonize with the story of the young girl’s fatigue. 
The faint rays, however, could reveal nothing-, al- 
though they had illumined page after page traced 
full of words of s’H:h vital import to him. 

Mrs. Mayburn shared his early breakfast, and be- 
fore he took his leave he tried to say in an easy, 
natural manner : 

Please make my adieus to Miss St. John, and 
say I called to present them in person, but it seemed 
she had retired with the birds. The colored divinity 
informed me that she was ‘ po’ful tired,’ and I hope 
you will express my regret that the day proved so 
exceedingly wearisome.” 

Mrs. Mayburn lifted her keen gray eyes to her 
nephew’s face, and a slow rising flush appeared 
under her scrutiny. Then she said gently, That’s 
a long speech, Alford, but I don’t think it ex- 
presses your meaning. If I give your cordial good- 
by to Grace and tell her that you hope soon to see 
her again, shall I not better carry out your wishes?” 
Yes,” was the grave and candid reply. 

I believe you are in earnest now.” 

** I am, indeed,” he replied, almost solemnly, 
and with these vague yet significant words they 
came to an understanding. 

Three days elapsed, and still Graham’s business 

not completed, In his impatience he left it uu- 


86 


Hl^ SOMBRE RIVALS. 


finished and returned. How his heart bounded as 
he saw the familiar cottage ! With hasty steps he 
passed up the path from the street. It was just such 
another evening as that which had smiled upon his 
first coming to his aunt’s residence, only now there 
was summer warmth in the air, and the richer, fuller 
promise of the year. The fragrance that filled the 
air, if less delicate, was more penetrating, and came 
from flowers that had absorbed the sun’s strengthen- 
ing rays. If there was less of spring’s ecstasy in 
the song of the birds, there was now in their notes 
that which was in truer accord with Graham’s 
mood. 

At a turn of the path he stopped short, for on the 
rustic seat beneath the apple-tree he saw Miss St. 
John reading a letter ; then he went forward to 
greet her, almost impetuously, with a glow in his 
face and a light in his eyes which no one had ever 
seen before. She rose to meet him, and there was 
an answering gladness in her face which made her 
seem divine to him. 

*^You are welcome,” she said cordially. We 
have all missed you more than We dare tell you 
and she gave his hand a warm, strong pressure. 

The cool, even-pulsed man, who as a boy had 
learned to hide his feelings, was for a moment un- 
able to speak. His own intense emotion, his all- 
absorbing hope, blinded him to the character of her 
greeting, and led him to give it a meaning it did not 
possess. She, equally preoccupied with her one 
thought, looked at him for a moment in surprise, 
and then cried, “ He has told you — has written ?’* 


THE REVELATION. 87 

He ! who?” Graham exclaimed with a blanch- 
ing face. 

“ Why, Warren Hilland, your friend. I told you 
I would tell you, but I could not before I told 
him,” she faltered. 

He took an uncertain step or two to the tree, and 
leaned against it for support. 

The young girl dropped the letter and clasped her 
hands in her distress. It was on the drive — our 
return, you remember,” she began incoherently. 

You asked where my thoughts were, and I said I 
would tell you soon. Oh ! we have both been blind. 
I am so — so sorry.” 

Graham’s face and manner had indeed been an 
unmistakable revelation, and the frank, generous girl 
waited for no conventional acknowledgment before 
uttering what was uppermost in her heart. 

By an effort which evidently taxed every atom of 
his manhood, Graham gained self-control, and said 
quietly, ” Miss St. John, I think better of myself for 
having loved you. If I had known! But you are not 
to blame. It is I who have been blind, for you have 
never shown other than the kindly regard which was 
most natural, knowing that I was Hilland’s friend. 
I have not been frank either, or I should have learned 
the truth long ago. I disguised the growing interest 
I felt in you from the first, fearing 1 should lose my 
chance if you understood me too early. I am 
Hilland’s friend. No one living now knows him 
better than I do, and from the depths of my heart I 
congratulate you. He is the best and truest man 
that ever lived.” 


88 


ms SOMBRE RIVALS. 


** Will you not be my friend, also ?** she faltered. 

He looked at her earnestly as he replied, ‘'Yes, 
for life.” 

“You will feel differently soon,” said the young 
girl, trying to smile reassuringly. “You will see 
that it has all been a mistake, a misunderstanding : 
and when your friend returns we will have the mer- 
riest, happiest times together.” 

” Could you soon feel differently.^” he asked. 

“ Oh ! why did you say that ?” she moaned, bury- 
ing her face in her hands. “ If you will suffer even 
in a small degree as I should !” 

Her distress was so evident and deep that he stood 
erect and stepped toward her. “ Why are you so 
moved, Miss St. John?” he asked. “I have 
merely paid you the highest compliment within my 
power.” 

Her hands dropped from her face, and she turned 
away, but not so quickly as to hide the tears that 
dimmed her lustrous eyes. His lip quivered for a 
moment at the sight of them, but she did not see this. 

“You have merely paid me a compliment,” she 
repeated in a low tone. 

The lines of his mouth were firm now, his face 
grave and coniposed, and in his gray eyes only a 
close observer might have seen that an indomitable 
will was resuming sway. “Certainly,” he con- 
tinued, “ and such compliments you have received 
before and would often again were you free to re- 
ceive them. I cannot help remembering that there 
is nothing unique in this episode.” 

She turned and looked at him doubtingly, as she 


THE REVELATION. 89 

said with hesitation, ‘‘You then regard your — 
your — " 

“ My vacation experience,” he supplied. 

Her eyes widened in what resembled indignant 
surprise, and her tones grew a little cold and con- 
strained as she again repeated his words. 

“You then regard your experience as a vacation 
episode.” 

“ Do not for a moment think I have been insin- 
cere,” he said, with strong emphasis, “or that I 
should not have esteemed it the chief honor of my 
life had I been successful — ” 

“As to that,” she interrupted, “there are so 
many other honors that a man can win.” 

“ Assuredly. Pardon me. Miss St. John, but I 
am sure you have had to inflict similar disappoint- 
ments before. Did not the men survive T' 

The girl broke out into a laugh in which there 
was a trace of bitterness. “ Survive !” she cried. 
“ Indeed they did. One is already married, and 
another I happen to know is engaged. Tm sure 
I’m glad, however. Your logic is plain and forcible, 
Mr. Graham, and you relieve my mind greatly. 
Men must be different from women.” 

“ Undoubtedly.” 

“ What did you mean by asking me, * Could you 
soon feel differently ? ’ ” 

He hesitated a moment and flushed slightly, then 
queried with a smile, “ What did you mean by say- 
ing that I should soon learn to feel differently, and 
that when Hilland returned we should have the mer- 
riest times together?’' 


90 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


It was her turn to be confused now ; and she saw 
that her words were hollow, though spoken from a 
kindly impulse. 

He relieved her by continuing; You probably 
spoke from an instinctive estimate of me. You 
remembered what a cool and wary suitor I had 
been. Your father would say that I had adopted 
an-army of-observation tactics, and I might have 
remembered that such armies rarely accomplish 
much. I waited for you to show some sign of 
weakness, and now you see that I am deservedly 
punished. It is ever best to face the facts as they 
are. 

‘‘You appear frank, Mr. Graham, and you cer- 
tainly have not studied philosophy in vain.” 

“ Why should I not take a philosophical view of 
the affair ? In my policy, which I thought so safe 
and astute, I blundered. If from the first I had 
manifested the feeling” — the young girl smiled 
slightly at the word — “ which you inspired, you 
would soon have taught me the wisdom of repress- 
ing its growth. Thus you see that you have not 
the slightest reason for self-censure ; and I can go 
on my way, at least a wiser man. 

She bowed gracefully, as she said with a laugh, 
“ I am now beginning to understand that Mr. 
Graham can scarcely regret anything which adds to 
his' stores of wisdom, and certainly not so slight an 
‘ affair " as a ‘ vacation episode.’ Now that we have 
talked over this little misunderstanding so frankly 
and rationally, will you not join us at whist to- 
night ?” 


THE REVELATION, . 91 

“ Certainly. My aunt and I will come over as 
usual.'' 

Her brow contracted in perplexity as she looked 
searchingly at him for a moment ; but his face was 
simply calm, grave, and kindly in its expression, and 
yet there was something about the man which im- 
pressed her and even awed her, — something unseen, 
but felt by her woman’s intuition. It must be 
admitted that it was felt but vaguely at the time ; 
for Grace after all was a woman, and Graham’s ap- 
parent philosophy was not altogether satisfactory. 

It had seemed to her as the interview progressed 
that she had been surprised into showing a distress 
and sympathy for which there was no occasion, — 
that she had interpreted a cool, self-poised man by 
her own passionate heart and boundless love. In 
brief, she feared she had been sentimental over an 
occasion which Graham, as he had suggested, was 
able to view philosophically. She had put a higher 
estimate on his disappointment than he, apparently ; 
and she had too much of her father’s spirit, and too 
much womanly pride not to resent this, even though 
she was partially disarmed by this very disappoint- 
ment, and still more so by his self-accusation and his 
tribute to Hilland. But that which impressed her 
most was something of which she saw no trace in 
the calm, .self-controlled man before her. As a rule, • 
the soul’s life is hidden, except as it chooses to 
reveal itself ; but there are times when the excess of 
joy or suffering cannot be wholly concealed, even 
though every muscle is rigid and the face marble. 
Therefore, although there were no outward signals 


92 


ms SOMBRE RIVALS. 


of distress, Graham's agony was not without its 
influence on the woman before him, and it led her 
to say, gently and hesitatingly, But you promised 
to be my friend, Mr. Graham." 

His iron will almost failed him, for he saw how far 
removed she was from those women who see and 
know nothing save that which strikes their senses. 
He had meant to pique her pride as far as he could 
without offence, even though he sank low in her 
estimation ; but such was the delicacy of her percep- 
tions that she half divined the trouble he sedulously 
strove to hide. He felt as if he could sit down and 
cry like a child over his immeasurable loss, and for 
a second feared he would give way. There was 
in his eyes a flash of anger at his weakness, but it 
passed so quickly that she could scarcely note, much 
less interpret it. 

Then he stepped forward in a friendly, hearty 
way, and took her hand as he said, “Yes, Miss St. 
John, and I will keep my promise. I will be your 
friend for life. If you knew my relations to Hil- 
land, you could not think otherwise. I shall tell 
him when we meet of my first and characteristic 
siege of a woman's heart, of the extreme and pru- 
dent caution with which I opened my distant paral- 
lels, and how, at last, when I came within tele- 
, scopic sight of the prize, I found that he had already 
captured it. My course has been so perfectly ab- 
surd that I must laugh in spite of myself and he 
did laugh so naturally and genially that Grace was 
constrained to join him, although the trouble and 
perplexity did not wholly vanish from her eyes. 


THE REVELATION. 


93 


And now,” he concluded, that I have experi- 
enced my first natural surprise, I will do more than 
sensibly accept the situation. I congratulate you 
upon it as no one else can. Had I a sister I would 
rather that she married Hilland than any other man 
in the world. We thus start on the right basis for 
friendship, and there need be no awkward restraint 
on either side. I must now pay my respects to my 
aunt, or I shall lose not only her good graces but my 
supper also and with a smiling bow he turned and 
walked rapidly up the path, and disappeared within 
Mrs. Mayburn's open door. 

Grace looked after him, and the perplexed con- 
traction of her brow deepened. She picked up 
Hilland's letter, and slowly and musingly folded it. 
Suddenly she pressed a fervent kiss upon it, and 
murmured, Thank God, the writer of this has 
blood in his veins ; and yet — and yet — he looked at 
first as if he had received a mortal wound, and — and 
—all the time I felt that he suffered. But very pos- 
sibly I am crediting him with that which would be 
inevitable were my case his.” 

With bowed head she returned slowly and 
thoughtfully through the twilight to her home 


CHAPTER X. 


THE KINSHIP OF SUFFERING. 

W HEN Graham felt that he had reached the 
refuge of his aunt’s cottage, his self-control 
failed him, and he almost staggered into the dusky 
parlor and sank into a chair. Burying his face in 
his hands, he muttered, “ Fool, fool, fool !” and a 
long, shuddering sigh swept through his frame. 

How long he remained in this attitude he did not 
know, so overwhelmed was he by his sense of loss. 
At last he felt a hand laid upon his shoulder ; he 
looked up and saw that the lamp was lighted and 
that his aunt was standing beside him. His face 
was so altered and haggard that she uttered an ex- 
clamation of distress. 

Graham hastily arose and turned down the light. 
I cannot bear that you should look upon my 
weakness,” he said, hoarsely. 

“ I should not be ashamed of having loved Grace 
St. John,” said the old lady, quietly. 

Nor am I. As I told her, I think far better of 
myself for having done so. A man who has seen 
her as I have would be less than a man had he not 
loved her. But oh, the future, the future I How 


THE KINSHIP OF SUFFERING. 95 

am I to support the truth that my love is useless, 
hopeless ?” 

Alford, I scarcely need tell you that my dis- 
appointment is bitter also. I had set my heart on 
this thing.’* 

'‘You know all, then?” 

“Yes, I know she is engaged to your friend, 
Warren Hilland. She came over in the dusk of last 
evening, and, sitting just where you are, told me all. 
I kept up. It was not for me to reveal your secret. 
I let the happy girl talk on, kissed her, and wished 
her all the happiness she deserves. Grace is unlike 
other girls, or I should have known about it long 
ago. I don’t think she even told her father until 
she had first written to him her full acknowledg- 
ment. Your friend, however, had gained her father’s 
consent to his addresses long since. She told me 
that.” 

Oh, my awful future !” he groaned. 

“ Alford,” Mrs. Mayburn said, gently but firmly, 
“ think of her future. Grace is so good and kind 
that she would be very unhappy if she saw and 
heard you now. I hope you did not give way thus 
in her presence.” 

He sprang to his feet and paced the room rapidly 
at first, then more and more slowly. Soon he turned 
up the light, and Mrs. Mayburn was surprised at the 
change in his appearance. 

“You are a strong, sensible woman,” he began. 

“ Well, I will admit the premise for the sake of 
learning what is to follow.” 

“ Miss St. John must never know of my sense of 


96 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


loss — my present despair,” he said, in low, rapid 
speech. ‘‘ Some zest in life may come back to me 
in time ; but, be that as it may, I shall meet my 
trouble like a man. To make her suffer now — to 
.cloud her well-merited happiness and that of my 
friend — would be to add a bitterness beyond that of 
death. Aunt, you first thought me cold and in- 
capable of strong attachments, and a few weeks since 
I could not have said that your estimate was far 
astray, although I’m sure my friendship for Hilland 
was as strong as the love of most men. Until I met 
you and Grace it was the only evidence I possessed 
that I had a heart. Can you wonder ? He was the 
first one that ever showed me any real kindness. I 
was orphaned in bitter truth, and from childhood 
my nature was chilled and benumbed by neglect and 
isolation. Growth and change are not so much 
questions of time as of conditions. From the first 
moment that I saw Grace St. John, she interested 
me deeply ; and, self-complacent, self-confident fool 
that I was, I thought I could deal with the supreme 
question ol life as I had dealt with those which half 
the world never think about at all. I remember your 
warning, aunt ; and yet, as I said to myself at the 
time, there was more of incentive than warning in 
your words. How self-confidentLy I smiled over 
them ! How perfectly sure I was that I could enjoy 
this rare girl’s society as I would look at a painting 
or listen to a symphony 1 Almost before 1 was 
aware, 1 found a craving in my heart which I now 
know all the world cannot satisfy. That June 
day which you arranged so kindly in my behalf 


THE KINSHIP OF SUFFERING, 


97 


made all as clear as the cloudless sun that shone 
upon us. That day I was revealed fully unto my- 
self ; but my hope was strong, for I felt that by the 
very law and correspondence of nature I could not 
have such an immeasurable need without having 
that need supplied. In my impatience I left my 
business unfinished and returned this evening, for I 
could not endure another hour of delay. She 
seemed to answer my glad looks when we met ; she 
gave her hand in cordial welcome. I, blinded by 
feeling, and thinking that its very intensity must 
awaken a like return, stood speechless, almost over- 
whelmed by my transcendent hope. She interpreted 
my manner naturally by what was uppermost in 
her mind, and exclaimed, ‘ He has told you — he 
has written.’ In a moment I knew the truth, and I 
scarcely think that a knife piercing my heart could 
inflict a deeper pang. I could not rally for a mo- 
ment or two. When shall I forget the sympathy — 
the tears that dimmed her dear eyes ! I have a 
religion at last, and I worship the divine nature of 
that complete woman. The thought that I made 
her suffer aroused my manhood ; and from that 
moment I strove to make light of the affair, — to give 
the impression that she was taking it more seriously 
than I did. I even tried to pique her pride, — I could 
not wound her vanity, for she has none, — and I par- 
tially succeeded. My task, however, was and will 
be a difficult one, for her organizatipn is so delicate 
and fine that she feels what she cannot see. But I 
made her laugh in spite of herself at my prudent, 
wary wooing. I removed, I think, all constraint. 


98 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


and we can meet as if nothing had happened. Not 
that we can meet often, — that would tax me beyond 
my strength, — but often enough to banish solicitude 
from her mind and from Hilland’s. Now you know 
the facts sufficiently to become a shrewd and effi- 
cient ally. By all your regard for me — what is far 
more, by all your love for her — I entreat you let me 
bring no cloud across her bright sky. We are going 
over to whist as usual to-night. Let all be as 
usual.’' 

“ Heaven bless you, Alford !” faltered his aunt, 
with tearful eyes. 

“ Heaven ! what a mockery ! Even the lichen, 
the insect, lives a complete life, while we, with all 
our reason, so often blunder, fail, and miss that 
which is essential to existence.” 

Mrs. Mayburn shook her head slowly and thought- 
fully, and then said, “ This very fact should teach 
us that our philosophy of life is false. We are both 
materialists, — I from the habit of living for this world 
only ; you, I suppose, from mistaken reasoning ; but 
in hours like these the mist is swept aside, and I feel, 
I know, that this life cannot, must not, be all in 
all.” 

” Oh, hush !” cried Graham, desperately. ” To 
cease to exist and therefore to suffer, may become 
the best one can hope for. Were it not cowardly, I 
would soon end it all.” 

“You may well use the word ‘ cowardly,’ ” said his 
aunt in strong emphasis ; “ and brave Grace St. John 
would revolt at and despise such cowardice by every 
law of her nature.” 


THE KINSHIP OF SUFFERING. 


99 


“ Do not fear. I hope never to do anything to 
forfeit her respect, except it is for the sake of her 
own happiness, as when to-day I tried to make 
her think my veins were filled with ice-water in- 
stead of blood. Come, I have kept you far too 
long. Let us go through the formality of supper ; 
and then I will prove to you that if I have been 
weak here I can be strong for her sake. I do not re- 
member my mother ; but nature is strong, and I sup- 
pose there comes a time in every one’s life when he 
must speak to some one as he would to a mother. 
You have been very kind, dear aunt, and I shall never 
forget that you have wished and schemed for my 
happiness.” 

The old lady came and put her arm around the 
young man’s neck and looked into his face with a 
strange wistfulness as she sa*id, slowly, ”^here is 
no blood relationship between us, Alford, but we are 
nearer akin than such ties could make us. You do 
not remember your mother ; I never had a child. 
But, as you say, nature is strong ; and although I 
have tried to satisfy myself with a hundred things, 
the mother in my heart has never been content. I 
hoped, I prayed, that you and Grace might become 
my children. Alford, I have been learning of late 
that I am a lonely, unhappy old woman. Will you 
not be my boy ? I would rather share your sorrow 
than be alone in the world again.” 

Graham was deeply touched. He bowed his head 
upon her shoulder as if he were her son, and a few 
hot tears fell from his eyes. “Yes, aunt,” he said, 
in a low tone, “ you ^have won the right to ask any- 


i66 


ms SOMBRE rivals. 


thing that I can give. Fate, in denying us both 
what our hearts most craved, has indeed made 
us near akin ; and there can be an unspoken sym- 
pathy between us that may have a sustaining power 
that we cannot now know. You have already taken 
the bitterness, the despair out of my sorrow ; and 
should I go to the ends of the earth I shall be the 
better for having you to think of and care for.'' 

“ And you feel that you cannot remain here, 
Alford?" 

“ No, aunt, that is now impossible ; that is, for 
the present." 

‘‘Yes, I suppose it is," she admitted, sadly. 

“ Come, aunty dear, I promised Miss St. John 
that we would go -over as usual to-night, and I 
would not for the world break my word." 

“ Th^n we shall go at once. We shall have a 
nice little supper on our return. Neither of us is 
in the mood for it now." 

After a hasty toilet Graham joined his aunt. She 
looked at him, and had no fears. 


CHAPTER XI. 


THE ORDEAL. 



RACE met them at the door. It is very kind 


V_X of you,” she said, to come over this even- 
ing after a fatiguing journey.” 

Very,” he replied, laughingly ; a ride of fifty 
miles in the cars should entitle one to a week's 


I hope you are going to take it.” 

** O, no ; my business man in New York has at 
last aroused me to heroic action. With only the 
respite of a few hours' sleep I shall venture upon 
the cars again and plunge into all the perils and excite- 
ments of a real estate speculation. My property is 
going up, and ‘there's a tide,' you know, ‘which, 
taken at its flood — ' ” 

“ Leads away from your friends. I see that it is 
useless for us to protest, for when did a man ever 
give up a chance for speculation ?” 

” Then it is not the fault of man ; we merely 
obey a general law.” 

“That is the way with you scientists,” she said 
with a piquant nod and smile. “You do just as 
you please, but you are always obeying some pro- 


102 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


found law that we poor mortals know nothing about. 
We don’t fall back upon the arrangements of the 
universe for our motives, do we, Mrs. Mayburn ?” 

“ Indeed we don’t,” was the brusque response. 
** ‘ When she will, she will, and when she won’t, 
she won’t,’ answers for us.” 

” Grace ! Mrs. Mayburn !” called the major from 
the parlor; “ if you don’t come soon I’ll order out 
the guard and have you brought in. Mr. Gra- 
ham,” he continued, as the young man hastened to 
greet him, “you are- as welcome as a leave of 
absence. We have had no whist since you left us, 
and we are nearly an hour behind time to-night. 
Mrs. Mayburn, your humble servant. Excuse me 
for not rising. Why the deuce my gout should 
trouble me again just now I can’t see. I’ve not 
seen you since that juvenile picnic which seemed to 
break up all our regular habits. I never thought 
that you would desert me. I suppose Mr. Graham 
carries a roving commission and can’t be disciplined. 
I propose, however, that we set to at once and put 
the hour we’ve lost at the other end of the even- 
ing.” 

It was evident that the major was in high spirits, 
in spite of his catalogue of ills ; and in fact his daugh- 
ter’s engagement had been extremely satisfactory 
to him. Conscious of increasing age and infirmity, 
he was delighted that Grace had chosen one so 
abundantly able to take care of her and of him also. 
For the last few days he had been in an amiable 
mood, for he felt that fortune had dealt kindly by 
him. His love for his only child was the supreme 


THE ORDEAL. 103 

affection of his heart, and she by her choice had ful- 
filled his best hopes. Her future was provided for 
and safe. Then from the force of long habit he 
thought next of himself.- If his tastes were not lux- 
urious, he had at least a strong liking for certain 
luxuries, and to these he would gladly add a few 
more did his means permit. He was a connoisseur 
in wines and the pleasures of the table, — not that 
he had any tendencies toward excess, but he de- 
lighted to sip the great wines of the world, to ex- 
patiate on their age, character, and origin. Some- 
times he would laughingly say, “ Never dilate on 
the treasures bequeathed to us by the old poets, 
sages, and artists, but for inspiration and consola- 
tion give me a bottle of old, old wine,-^wine 
made from grapes that ripened before I was born.’* 
He was too upright a man, however, to gratify 
these tastes beyond his means ; but Grace was an 
indulgent and skilful housekeeper, and made their 
slender income minister to her father’s pleasure in a 
way that surprised even her practical friend, Mrs. 
Mayburn. In explanation she would laughingly 
say, “ I regard housekeeping as a fine art. The 
more limited your materials the greater the genius 
required for producing certain results. Nowj I’m a 
genius, Mrs. Mayburn. You wouldn’t dream it, 
would you ? Papa sometimes has a faint conscious- 
ness of the fact when he finds on his table wines and 
dishes of which he knows the usual cost. ^ My 
dear,’ he will say severely, Ms this paid for?’ 
‘Yes,’ I reply, meekly. ‘How did you manage 
it ? ’ Then I stand upon my dignity, and reply with 


104 HIS SOMBRE RIVALS, 

offended majesty, ^ Papa, I am housekeeper. You 
are too good a soldier to question the acts of your 
superior officer.’ Then he makes me a most pro- 
found bow and apology, and rewards me amply by 
his almost childlike enjoyment of what after all has 
only cost me a little undetected economy and skill 
in cookery.” 

But the major was not so blind as he appeared to 
be. He knew more of her undetected” econo- 
mies, which usually came out of her allowance, 
than she supposed, and his conscience often re- 
proached him for permitting them ; but since they 
appeared to give her as much pleasure as they 
afforded him, he had let them pass. It is hard for 
a petted and weary invalid to grow in self-denial. 
While the old gentleman would have starved rather 
than angle for Hilland or plead his cause by a word 
— he had given his consent to the young man’s ad- 
dresses with the mien of a major-general — he never- 
theless foresaw that wealth as the ally of his 
daughter’s affection would make him one of the 
most discriminating and fastidious gourmands in 
the land. 

In spite of his age and infirmity the old soldier 
was exceedingly fond of travel and of hotel life. He 
missed the varied associations of the army. Pain he 
had to endure much of the time, and from it there 
was no escape. Change of place, scene, and com- 
panionship diverted his mind, and he partially forgot 
his sufferings. As we have shown, he was a de- 
vourer of newspapers, but he enjoyed the world’s 
gossip far more when he could talk it over with 


THE ORDEAL. 


ios 

Others, and maintain on the questions of the day 
half a dozen good-natured controversies. When at 
the seashore the previous summer he had fought 
scores of battles for his favorite measures with 
other ancient devotees of the newspaper. Grace 
had made Graham laugh many a time by her in- 
imitable descriptions of the quaint tilts and chaffings 
of these graybeards, as each urged the views of 
his favorite journals ; and then she would say, 

You ought to see them sit down to whist. Such 
prolonged and solemn sittings upset my gravity 
more than all their bric-h-brac jokes." And then 
she had sighed and said, “ I wish we could have 
remained longer, for papa improved so much and 
was so happy. ’ ' 

The time was coming when he could stay longer, — 
as long as he pleased, — for whatever pleased her 
father would please Grace, and would have to please 
her husband. Her mother when dying had com- 
mitted the old man to her care, and a sacred obliga- 
tion had been impressed upon her childish mind 
which every year had strengthened. 

As we have seen, Grace had given her heart to 
Hilland by a compulsion which she scarcely under- 
stood herself. No thrifty calculations had had the 
slightest influence in bringing the mysterious change 
of feeling that had been a daily surprise to the 
young girl. She had turned to Hilland as the 
flower turns to the sun, with scarcely more than the 
difference that she was conscious that she was 
turning. When at last she ceased to wonder at the 
truth that her life had become blended with that of 


io6 ttlS SOMBRE RIVALS. 

another — for, as her love developed, this union 
seemed the most natural and inevitable thing in the 
world — she began to think of Hilland more than of 
herself, and of the changes which her new relations 
would involve. It became one of the purest sources 
of her happiness that she would eventually have 
the means of gratifying every taste and whim of her 
father, and could surround him with all the comforts 
which his age and infirmities permitted him to enjoy. 

Thus the engagement ring on Miss St. John's 
finger had its heights and depths of meaning to both 
father and daughter ; and its bright golden hue 
pervaded all the prospects and possibilities — the 
least as well as the greatest — of the future. It was 
but a plain, heavy circlet of gold, and looked like a 
wedding-ring. Such to Graham it seemed to be, as 
its sheen flashed upon his eyes during their play, 
which continued for two hours or more, with scarcely 
a remark or an interruption beyond the requirements 
of the game. The old major loved this complete 
and scientific absorption, and Grace loved to humor 
him. Moreover, she smiled more than once at Gra- 
ham’s intentness. Never had he played so well, and 
her father had to put forth all his veteran skill and 
experience to hold his own. “ To think that I shed 
tears over his disappointment, when a game of whist 
can console him !” she thought. How different he 
is from his friend ! I suppose that is the reason that 
they are such friends, — they are so unlike. The idea 
of Warren playing with that quiet, steady hand and 
composed face under like circumstances 1 And yet, 
why is he so pale ?” 


THE ORDEAL. 


107 


Mrs. Mayburn understood this pallor too well, 
and she felt that the ordeal had lasted long enough. 
She, too, had acted her part admirably, but now she 
pleaded fatigue, saying that she had not been very 
well for the last day or two. She was inscrutable 
to Grace, and caused no misgivings. It is easier for 
a woman than for a man to hide emotions from a 
woman, and Mrs. Mayburn’s gray eyes and strong 
features rarely revealed anything that she meant to 
conceal. The major acquiesced good-naturedly, say- 
ing, You are quite right to stop, Mrs. Mayburn, 
and I surely have no cause to complain. We have 
had more play in two hours than most people have 
in two weeks. I congratulate you, Mr. Graham ; 
you are becoming a foeman worthy of any man’s 
steel.” 

Graham rose with the relief which a man would 
feel on leaving the rack, and said, smilingly, Your 
enthusiasm is contagious. Any man would soon be 
on his mettle who played often with you.” 

Is enthusiasm one of your traits ?” Grace asked, 
with an arch smile over her shoulder, as she went to 
ring the bell. 

“ What ! Have you not remarked it ?” 

Grace has been too preoccupied to remark any- 
thing, — sly puss !” said the major, laughing heartily. 

My dear Mrs. Mayburn, I shall ask for your con- 
gratulations to-night. I know we shall have yours, 
Mr. Graham, for Grace has informed me that Hil- 
land is your best and nearest friend. This little girl 
of mine has been playing blind-man’s-buff with her 
old father. She thought she had the handkerchief 


io8 HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 

tight over my eyes, but I always keep one corner 
raised a little. Well, Mr. Graham, this dashing 
friend of yours, who thinks he can carry all the 
world by storm, asked me last summer if he could 
lay siege to Grace. I felt like wringing his neck for 
his audacity and selfishness. The idea of any one 
taking Grace from me 

*‘And no one shall, papa,’' said Grace, hiding 
her blushing face behind his white shock of hair. 
“ But I scarcely think these details will interest — ” 

‘‘What!” cried the bluff, frank old soldier, — 
“ not interest Mrs. Mayburn, the best and kindest 
of neighbors ? not interest Hilland’s alter ego f* 

“ I assure you,” said Graham, laughing, “that I 
am deeply interested ; and I promise you. Miss 
Grace, that I shall give Hilland a severer curtain 
lecture than he will ever receive from you, because 
he has left me in the dark so long.” 

“ Stop pinching my arm,” cried the major, who 
was in one of his jovial moods, and often immense- 
ly enjoyed teasing his daughter. “You may well 
hide behind me. Mrs. Mayburn, I’m going to ex- 
pose a rank case of filial deception that was not in 
the least successful. This ‘ I came, I saw, I con- 
quered ’ friend of yours, Mr. Graham, soon dis- 
covered that he was dealing with a race that was 
not in the habit of surrendering. But your friend, 
like Wellington, never knew when he was beaten. 
He wouldn’t retreat an inch, but drawing his lines as 
close as he dared, sat down to a regular siege.” 

Graham again laughed outright, and with a 
comical glance at the young girl, asked, “Are you 


THE ORDEAL, 


109 


sure, sir, that Miss St. John was aware of these 
siege operations 

Indeed she was. Your friend raised his flag at 
once, and nailed it to the staff. And this little 
minx thought that she could deceive an old soldier 
like myself by playing the rdle of disinterested 
friend to a lonely young man condemned to the 
miseries of a mining town. I was often tempted to 
ask her why she did not extend her sympathy to 
scores of young fellows in the service who are in 
danger of being scalped every day. But the joke of 
it was that I knew she was undermined and must 
surrender long before Hilland did.” 

Now, papa, it’s too bad of you to expose me in 
this style. I appeal to Mrs. Mayburn if I did not 
keep my flag flying so defiantly to the last that even 
she did not suspect me.” 

Yes,” said the old lady, dryly ; I can testify 
to that.” 

Which is only another proof of my penetra- 
tion,” chuckled the major. Well, well, it is so 
seldom I can get ahead of Grace in anything that I 
like to make the most of my rare good fortune ; and 
it seems, Mr. Graham, as if you and your aunt had 
already become a part of our present and prospec- 
tive home circle. I have seen a letter in which 
Warren speaks of you in a way that reminds me of 
a friend who was shot almost at my side in a fight 
with the Indians. That was nearly half a century 
ago, and yet no one has taken his place. With men, 
friendships mean something, and last.” 

” Come, come,” cried Mrs. Mayburn, bristling 


no 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


up, neither Grace nor I will permit such an im- 
plied slur upon our sex/’ 

“ My friendship for Hilland will last,” said Gra- 
ham, with quiet emphasis. “ Most young men are 
drawn together by a mutual liking, — by something 
congenial in their natures. I owe him a debt of 
gratitude that can never be repaid. He found me 
a lonely, neglected boy, who had scarcely ever 
known kindness, much less affection, and his ardent, 
generous nature became an antidote to my gloomy 
tendencies. From the first he has been a constant 
and faithful friend. He has not one unworthy 
trait. But there is nothing negative about him, for 
he abounds in the best and most manly qualities ; 
and I think,” he concluded, speaking slowly and de- 
liberately, as if he were making an inward vow, 

that I shall prove worthy of his trust and regard.” 

Grace looked at him earnestly and gratefully, and 
the thought again asserted itself that she had not 
yet gauged his character or his feeling toward her- 
self. To her surprise she also noted that Mrs. 
Mayburn’s eyes were filled with tears, but the old 
lady was equal to the occasion, and misled her by 
saying, ” I feel condemned, Alford, that 3'’ou should 
have been so lonely and neglected in early life, but 
I know it was so.” 

” O, well, aunt, you know I was not an interest- 
ing boy, and had I been imposed upon you in my 
hobbledehoy period, our present relations might 
never have existed. I must ask your congratulations 
also,” he continued, turning toward the major and 
his daughter. ” My aunt and I have in a sense 


THE ORDEAL. 


Ill 


adopted each other. I came hither to pay her a 
formal call, and have made another very dear 
friend.” 

“ Have you made only one friend since you 
became our neighbor?” asked Grace, with an ac- 
cent of reproach in her voice. 

” I would very gladly claim you and your father 
as such,” he replied, smilingly. 

The old major arose with an alacrity quite sur- 
prising in view of his lameness, and pouring out two 
glasses of the wine that Jinny had brought in answer 
to Grace’s touch of the bell, he gave one of the 
glasses to Graham, and with the other in his left 
hand, he said, ” And here I pledge you the word of 
a soldier that I acknowledge the claim in full, not 
only for Hilland's sake, but your own. You have 
generously sought to beguile the tedium of a crotch- 
ety and irritable old man ; but such as he is he 
gives you his. hand as a true, stanch friend ; and 
Grace knows this means a great deal with me.” 

“Yes, indeed,” she cried. I declare, papa, you 
almost make me jealous. You treated Warren as if 
you were the Great Mogul, and he but a presuming 
subject. Mr. Graham, if so many new friends are 
not an embarrassment of riches, will you give me a 
little niche among them ?” 

I cannot give you that which is yours already,” 
he replied ; nor have I a little niche for you. You 
have become identified with Hilland, you know, and 
therefore require a large space.” 

Now, see here, my good friends, you are making 
too free with my own peculiar property. You are 


II2 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


already rich in each other, not counting Mr. Hilland, 
who, according to Alford, seems to embody all hu- 
man excellence. I have only this philosophical 
nephew, and even with him shall find a rival in every 
book he can lay hands upon. I shall therefore carry 
him off at once, especially as he is to be absent 
several days.” 

The major protested against his absence, and was 
cordiality itself in his parting words. 

Grace followed them out on the moonlit piazza. 

Mr. Graham,” she said, hesitatingly, “you will 
not be absent very long, I trust. 

” O, no,” he replied lightly ; ” only two or three 
weeks. In addition to my affairs in the city, I have 
some business in Vermont, and while there shall fol- 
low down some well-remembered trout-streams.” 

She turned slightly away, and buried her face in a 
spray of roses from the bush that festooned the 
porch. He saw that a tinge of color was in her 
cheeks, as she said in a low tone, “You should not 
be absent long ; I think your friend will soon visit 
us, and you should be here to welcome him,” and 
she glanced hastily toward him. Was it the moon- 
light that made him look so very pale ? His eyes 
held hers. * Mrs. Mayburn had walked slowly on, 
and seemingly he had forgotten her. The young 
girl’s eyes soon fell before his fixed gaze, and her 
face grew troubled. He started, and said lightly, 
” I beg your pardon, Miss Grace, but you have 
no idea what a picture you make with the aid of 
those roses. The human face in clear moonlight 
reveals character, it is said, and I again congratulate 


THE ORDEAL, 


my friend without a shadow of doubt. Unversed 
as I am in such matters, I am quite satisfied that 
Hilland will need no other welcome than yours, and 
that he will be wholly content with it for some time 
to come. Moreover, when I find myself among the 
trout, there’s no telling when I shall get out of the 
woods.” 

” Is fishing, then, one of your ruling passions?” 
the young girl asked, with an attempt to resume her 
old piquant style of talk with him. 

“Yes,” he replied laughing, so that his aunt 
might hear him ; “ but when one's passions are of so 
mild a type one may be excused for having a half- 
dozen. Good-by!” 

She stepped forward and held out her hand. 
“ You have promised to be my friend,” she said 
gently. 

His hand trembled in her grasp as he said quietly 
and firmly, “ I will keep my promise.” 

She looked after him wistfully, as she thought, 
“ I’m not sure about him. I hope it’s only a pass- 
ing disappointment, for we should not like to think 
that our happiness had brought him wretchedness.” 


CHAPTER XII. 


FLIGHT TO NATURE. 


RAHAM found his aunt waiting for him on 



VJT the rustic seat beneath the apple-tree. Here, 
a few hours before, his heart elate* with hope, he 
had hastened forward to meet Grace St. John. 
Ages seemed to have passed since that moment of 
bitter disappointment, teaching him how relative a 
thing is time. 

The old lady joined him without a word, and 
they passed on silently to the house. As they 
entered, she said, trying to infuse into the common- 
place words something of her sympathy and affec- 
tion, “ Now we will have a cosey little supper.'* 

Graham placed his hand upon her arm, and 
detained her, as he replied, “ No, aunt ; please get 
nothing for me. I must hide myself for a few 
hours from even your kind eyes. Do not think me 
weak or unmanly. I shall soon get the reins well in 
hand, and shall then be quiet enough.” 

” I think your self-control has been admirable 
this evening.” 

” It was the self-control of sheer, desperate force, 
and only partial at that. I know I must have been 


FLIGHT TO NATURE. 


”5 


almost ghostly in my pallor. I have felt pale, — as if 
I were bleeding to death. I did not mean to take 
her hand in parting, for I could not trust myself ; 
but she held it out so kindly that I had to give 
mine, which, in spite of my whole will-power, 
trembled. I troubled and perplexed her. I have 
infused an element of sorrow and bitterness into 
her happy love ; for in the degree in which it 
gives her joy she will fear that it brings the heart- 
ache to me, and she is too good and kind not to 
care. I must go away and not return until my face 
is bronzed and my nerves are steel. O aunt ! you 
cannot understand me ; I scarcely understand my- 
self. It seems as if all the love that I might have 
given to many in the past, had my life been like that 
of others, had been accumulating for this hopeless, 
useless waste, — this worse than waste, since it only 
wounds and pains its object.” 

” And do I count for so little, Alford ?” 

” You count for more now than all others save 
one ; and if you knew how contrary this utter un- 
reserve is to my nature and habit, you would under- 
stand how perfect is my confidence in you and how 
deep is my affection. But I am learning with a sort 
of dull, dreary astonishment that there are heights 
and depths of experience of which I once had not 
the faintest conception. This is a kind of battle 
that one must fight out alone. I must go away and 
accustom myself to a new condition of life. But 
do not worry about me. I shall come back a verte- 
brate and he tried to summon a reassuring smile, 
as he kissed her in parting. 


Ii6 HIS SOMBRE RIVALS, 

That night Graham faced his trouble, and decided 
upon his future course. 

After an early breakfast the next morning the 
young man bade his aunt good-by. With moist 
eyes, she said, “ Alford, I am losing you, just as I 
find how much you are and can be to me.” 

” No, aunty dear ; my course will prove best for 
us both,” he replied, gently. “You would not be 
happy if you saw me growing more sad and despair- 
ing every day through inaction, and — and — well, I 
could never become strong and calm with that 
cottage there just beyond the trees. You have not 
lost me, for I shall try to prove a good corre- 
spondent.” 

Graham kept his word. His “ real estate specula- 
tion” did not detain him long in the city, for his 
business agent was better able to manage such 
interests than the inexperienced student ; and soon 
a letter dated among the mountains and the trout 
streams of Vermont assured Mrs. Mayburn that he 
had carried out his intentions. Not long after, a 
box with a score of superb fish followed the letter, 
and Major St. John’s name was pinned on some of 
the largest and finest. During the next fortnight 
these trophies of his sport continued to arrive at 
brief intervals, and they were accompanied by letters, 
giving in almost journal form graphic descriptions 
of the streams he had fished, their surrounding 
scenery, and the amusing peculiarities of the na- 
tives. There was not a word that suggested the 
cause that had driven him so suddenly into the 
wilderness, but on every page were evidences of tire- 
less activity. 


FLIGHT TO NATURE. 117 

The major was delighted with the trout, and 
enjoyed a high feast almost every day. Mrs. May- 
burn, imagining that she had divined Graham's 
wish, read from his letters glowing extracts which 
apparently revealed an enthusiastic sportsman. 

After his departure Grace had resumed her fre- 
quent visits to her congenial old friend, and con- 
fidence having now been given in respect to her 
absent lover, the young girl spoke of him out of the 
abundance of her heart. Mrs. Mayburn tried to be 
all interest and sympathy, but Grace was puzzled 
by something in her manner, — something not absent 
when she was reading Graham’s letters. One after- 
noon she said : “Tell your father that he may soon 
expect something extraordinarily fine, for Alford 
has written me of a twenty-mile tramp through the 
mountains to a stream almost unknown and inacces- 
sible. ” 

“ Won’t you read the description to us this even- 
ing ? You have no idea how much pleasure papa 
takes in Mr. Graham’s letters. He says they in- 
crease the gamy flavor of the fish he enjoys so 
much ; and I half believe that Mr. Graham in this 
indirect and delicate way is still seeking to amuse 
my father, and so compensate him for his absence. 
Warren will soon be here, however, and then we 
can resume our whist parties. Do you know that I 
am almost jealous } Papa talks more of Vermont 
woods than of Western mines. You ought to hear 
him expatiate upon the trout. He seems to follow 
Mr. Graham up and down every stream ; and he ex- 
plains to me with the utmost minuteness just houf 


Ii8 HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 

the flies are cast and just where they were probably 
thrown to snare the speckled beauties. By the way, 
Mr. Graham puzzles me. He seems to be the most in- 
defatigable sportsman I ever heard of. But I should 
never have suspected it from the tranquil weeks he 
spent with us. He seemed above all things a 
student of the most quiet and intellectual tastes, 
one who could find more pleasure in a library and 
laboratory than in all the rest of the world together. 
Suddenly he develops into the most ardent disciple 
of Izaak Walton. Indeed, he is too ardent, too full 
of restless activity to be a true follower of the 
gentle, placid Izaak. At his present rate he will 
soon overrun all Vermont and she looked search- 
ingly at her friend. 

A faint color stole into the old lady’s cheeks, but 
she replied, quietly, “ I have learned to know Alford 
well enough to love him dearly ; and yet you must 
remember that but a few weeks ago he was a com- 
parative stranger to me. He certainly is giving us 
ample proof of his sportsmanship, and now that I 
recall it, I remember hearing of his fondness for 
solitary rambles in the woods when a boy.” 

” His descriptions certainly prove that he is 
familiar with them,” was the young girl’s answer 
to Mrs. Mayburn’s words. Her inward comrnent 
on the slight flush that accompanied them was, 
” She knows. He has told her ; or she, less blind 
than I, has seen.” But she felt that the admission 
of his love into which Graham had been surprised 
was not a topic for her to introduce, although she 
Jonged to be assured that she had not seriously 


PLiGitT TO NATURE. 


119 


disturbed the peace of her lover’s friend. A day or 
two later Hilland arrived, and her happiness was too 
deep, too complete, to permit many thoughts of the 
sportsman in the Vermont forests. Nor did Hilland’s 
brief but hearty expressions of regret at Graham’s 
temporary absence impose upon her. She saw that 
the former was indeed more than content with her 
welcome ; that while his friendship was a fixed star 
of the first magnitude, it paled and almost disap- 
peared before the brightness and fulness of her 
presence. ‘‘ Nature,” indeed, became ” radiant” 
to both ” with purple light, the morning and the 
night varied enchantments. ’ ’ 

Grace waited for Graham to give his own confi- 
dence to his friend if he chose to do so, for she feared 
that if she spoke of it estrangement might ensue. 
The unsuspecting major was enthusiastic in his 
praises of the successful fisherman, and Hilland 
indorsed with emphasis all he said. Graham’s ab- 
sence and Grace’s reception had banished even the 
thought that he might possibly find a rival in his 
friend, and his happiness was unalloyed. 

One sultry summer evening in early July Graham 
returned to his aunt’s residence, and was informed 
that she was, as usual, at her neighbor’s. He went 
immediately, to his room to remove the dust and 
stains of travel. On his table still lay the marked copy 
of Emerson that Grace had lent him, and he smiled 
bitterly as he recalled his complacent, careless sur- 
mises over the underscored passage, now so well 
understood and explained. Having finished his 
toilet, he gazed steadily at his reflection in the 


120 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


mirror, as a soldier might have done to see if his 
equipment was complete. It was evident he had 
not gone in vain to nature for help. His face was 
bronzed, and no telltale flush or pallor could now 
be easily recognized. His expression was calm and 
resolute, indicating nerves braced and firm. Then he 
turned away with the look of a man going into 
battle, and without a moment’s hesitancy he sought 
the ordeal. The windows and doors of Major St. 
John’s cottage were open, and as he mounted the 
piazza the group around the whist table was in full 
view, — the major contracting his bushy eyebrows 
over his hand as if not altogether satisfied, Mrs. 
Mayburn looking at hers with an interest so faint as 
to suggest that her thoughts were wandering, and 
Hilland with his laughing blue eyes glancing often 
from his cards to the fair face of his partner, as if he 
saw there a story that would deepen in its enthralling 
interest through life. There was no shadow, no 
doubt on his wide, white brow. It was the genial, 
frank, merry face of the boy who had thawed the 
reserve and banished the gathering gloom of a 
solitary youth at college, only now it was marked 
by the stronger lines of early manhood. His fine, 
short upper lip was clean shaven, and its tremu- 
lous curves indicated a nature quick, sensitive, 
and ready to respond to every passing influence, 
while a full, tawny beard and broad shoulders ban- 
ished all suggestion of effeminacy. He appeared to 
be, what in truth he was, an unspoiled favorite of 
fortune, now supremely happy in her best and 
latest gift. If I could but have known the truth 


FLIGHT TO NATURE. 


I2I 


at first,” sighed Graham, “I would not have lin- 
gered here until my very soul was enslaved ; for he 
is the man above all others to win and hold a 
woman's heart.” 

That he held the heart of the fair girl opposite him 
was revealed by every glance, and Graham’s heart 
ached with a pain hard to endure, as he watched for a 
moment the exquisite outlines of her face, her wide, 
low brow with its halo of light-colored hair that was 
in such marked contrast with the dark and lustrous 
eyes, now veiled by silken lashes as she looked 
downward intent on the game, now beaming with 
the very spirit of mirth and mischief as she looked 
at her opponents, and again softening in obedience 
to the controlling law of her life as she glanced half 
shyly from time to time at the great bearded man 
on the other side of the table. 

” Was not the world wide enough for me to 
escape seeing that face?” he groaned. “A few 
months since I was content with my life and lot. 
Why did I come thousands of miles to meet such 
a fate ? I feared I should have to face poverty and 
privation for a time. Now they are my lot for life, 
an impoverishment that wealth would only enhance. 
I cannot stay here, I will not remain a day longer 
than is essential to make the impression I wish to 
leave ;” and with a firm step he crossed the piazza, 
rapped lightly in announcement of his presence, and 
entered without ceremony. 

Hilland sprang forward joyously to meet him, and 
gave him just such a greeting as accorded with his 
ardent spirit. ” Why, Graham !” he cried, with a 


122 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


crushing grasp, and resting a hand on his shoulder 
at the same time, “ you come unexpectedly, like 
all the best things in the world. We looked for a 
letter that would give us a chance to celebrate your 
arrival as that of the greatest fisherman of the 
age." 

" Having taken so many unwary trout, it was 
quite in keeping to take us unawares," said Grace, 
pressing forward with outstretched hand, for she 
had determined to show in the most emphatic way 
that Hilland’s friend was also hers. 

Graham took the proffered hand and held it, while, 
with a humorous glance at his friend, he said, " See 
here, Hilland, I hold an indisputable proof that it’s 
time you appeared on the confines of civilization 
and gave an account of yourself." 

" I own up, old fellow. You have me on the hip. 
I have kept one secret from you. If we had been 
together the thing would have come out, but some- 
how I couldn’t write, even to you, until I knew my 
fate." 

" Mr. Graham," broke in the major, " if w’e were 
in the service, I should place you in charge of the 
commissary department, and give you a roving com- 
mission. I have lived like a lord for the past two 
weeks ;" and he shook Graham’s hand so cordially as 
to prove his heart had sympathized with an adjacent 
organ that had been highly gratified. 

" I have missed you, Alford," was his aunt’s 
quiet greeting, and she kissed him as if he were her 
son, causing a sudden pang as he remembered how 
soon he would bid her farewell again. 


FLIGHT TO NATURE, 


123 


** Why, Graham, how you have improved ! You 
have gained a splendid color in the woods. The 
only trouble is that you are as attenuated as some 
of the theories we used to discuss.” 

“ And you, giddy boy, begin to look quite like a 
man. Miss Grace, you will never know how greatly 
you are indebted to me for my restraining influence. 
There never was a fellow who needed to be sat 
down upon so often as Hilland. I have curbed and 
pruned him ; indeed, I have almost brought him 
up.” 

” He does you credit,” was her reply, spoken 
with mirthful impressiveness, and with a very con- 
tented glance at the laughing subject of discussion. 

” Yes, Graham,” he remarked, ” you were a trifle 
heavy at times, and were better at bringing a fellow 
down than up. It took all the leverage of my jolly 
good nature to bring you up occasionally. But I am 
glad to see and hear that you have changed so 
happily. Grace and the major say you have become 
the best of company, taking a human interest in 
other questions than those which keep the scientists 
by the ears. ” 

” That is because I have broken my shell and 
come out into the world. One soon discovers that 
there are other questions, and some of them Conun- 
drums that the scientists may as well give up at the 
start. I say, Hilland, how young we were over 
there in Germany when we thought ourselves grow- 
ing hourly into savants T' 

“ Indeed we were, and as sublimely complacent as 
we were young. Would you believe it, Mrs. May- 


124 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


burn, your nephew and I at one time thought we 
were on the trail of some of the most elusive secrets 
of the universe, and that we should soon drag them 
from cover. I have learned since that this little 
girl could teach me more than all the universities.’* 

Graham shot a swift glance at his aunt, which 
Grace thought she detected ; but he turned to the 
latter, and said genially, “ I congratulate you on 
excelling all the German doctors. I know he’s right, 
and he’ll remember the lore obtained from you long 
after he has forgotten the deep, guttural abstrac- 
tions that droned on his ears abroad. It will do 
him more good, too.” 

” I fear I am becoming a subject of irony to you 
both,” said Grace. 

They are both becoming too deep for us, are 
they not, Mrs. Mayburn ?” put in the major. 
“You obtained your best knowledge, Mr. Graham, 
when you tramped the woods as a boy, and though 
you gathered so much of it by hook it’s like the fish 
you killed, rare to find. If we were in the service 
and I had the power. I’d have you brevetted at once, 
and get some fellow knocked on the head to make 
a vacancy. You have been contributing royally to 
our mess, and now you must take a soldier’s luck 
with us to-night. Grace, couldn’t you improvise 
a nice little supper?” 

“ Please do not let me cause any such trouble 
this hot evening,” Graham began ; “I dined late 
in town, and — ” 

“No insubordination,” interrupted Grace, rising 
with alacrity. “ Certainly I can, papa,” and as she 


FLIGHT TO NATURE. 


125 


paused near Graham, she murmured, “ Don’t object ; 
it will please papa.” 

She showed what a provident housekeeper she 
was, for they all soon sat down to an inviting 
repast, of which fruit was the staple article, with 
cake so light and delicate that it would never dis- 
turb a man’s conscience after he retired. Then with 
genial words and smiles that masked all heartache, 
Graham and his aunt said good-night and departed, 
Hilland accompanying his friend, that he might pour 
out the long-delayed confidence. Graham shivered 
as he thought of the ordeal, as a man might tremble 
who was on his way to the torture chamber, but 
outwardly he was quietly cordial. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


THE FRIENDS. 


FTER accompanying Mrs. Mayburn to her cot- 



tage door, the friends strolled away together, 
the sultry evening rendering them reluctant to enter 
the house. When they reached the rustic seat under 
the apple-tree, Hilland remarked, “ Here’s a good 
place for our — ” 

“ Not here,” interrupted Graham, in a tone 
that was almost sharp in its tension. 

“Why not?” asked his friend, in the accent of 
surprise. 

”0, well,” was the confused answer, ” some 
one may be passing, — servants may be out in the 
grounds. Suppose we walk slowly.” 

” Graham, you seem possessed by the very demon 
of restlessness. The idea of walking this hot 
night !” 

” O, well, it doesn’t matter,” Graham replied, 
carelessly, although his face was rigid with the 
effort ; and he threw himself down on the rustic 
seat. ” We are not conspirators that we need steal 
away in the darkness. Why should I not be rest- 
less after sitting in the hot cars all day, and with 
the habit of tramping fresh upon me?” 


THE FRIENDS, 


127 


“ What evil spirit drove you into the wilderness, 
and made you the champion tramp of the country ? 
It se’ems to me you must have some remarkable 
confidences also.” 

” No evil spirit, I assure you ; far from it. My 
tramp has done me good ; indeed, I never derived 
more benefit from an outing in the woods in my 
life. You will remember that when we were boys 
at college no fellow took longer walks than I. I 
am simply returning to the impulses of my youth. 
The fact is. I’ve been living too idly, and of course 
there would be a reaction in one of my temperament 
and habits. The vital force which had been ac- 
cumulating under my aunt’s high feeding and the 
inspiration resulting from the society of two such 
charming people as Major and Miss St. John, had 
to be expended in some way. Somehow I’ve lost 
much of my old faith in books and laboratories. 
I’ve been thinking a great deal about it, and seeing 
you again has given a strong impulse to a forming 
purpose. I felt a sincere commiseration when you 
gave up your life of a student. I was a fool to do 
so. I have studied your face and manner this 
evening, and can see that you have developed more 
manhood out in those Western mines, in your con- 
tact with men and things and the large material 
interests of the world, than you could have acquired 
by delving a thousand years among dusty tomes. ” 

” That little girl over there has done more for me 
than Western mines and material interests.” 

” That goes without saying ; and yet she could 
have done little for you, had you been a dawdler. 


12 $ 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS, 


Indeed, in that case she would have had nothing to 
do with you. She recognized that you were like 
the gold you are mining, — worth taking and fashion- 
ing ; and I tell you she is not a girl to be imposed 
upon/* 

** Flatterer !*’ 

“No; friend/* 

“ You admire Grace very much/* 

“ I do indeed, and I respect her still more. You 
know I never was a lady’s man ; indeed, the society 
of most young women was a weariness to me. 
Don’t imagine I am asserting any superiority. You 
enjoyed their conversation, and you are as clever as 
I am.’* 

“I understand,** said Hilland, laughing; “you 
had nothing in common. You talked to a girl as if 
she were a mile off, and often broached topics that 
were cycles away. Now, a girl likes a fellow to 
come reasonably close — metaphorically, if not act- 
ually — when he chats with her. Moreover, many 
that you met, if they had brains, had never culti- 
vated them. They were as shallow as a duck-pond, 
and with their small deceits, subterfuges, and affecta- 
tions, were about as transparent. Some might imagine 
them deep. They puzzled and nonplussed you, and 
you slunk away. Now I, while rating them at their 
worth, was able from previous associations to talk 
a little congenial nonsense, and pass on. They 
amused me, too. You know I have a sort of 
laughing philosophy, and everything and everybody 
amuses me. The fellows would call these creatures 
angels, and they would flap their little butterfly 


THE FRIENDS. 


129 


wings as if they thought they were. How happened 
it that you so soon were en rapport with Grace ?” 

“Ah, wily wretch!” Graham laughed gayly, 
while the night hid his lowering brows ; “ praise of 
your mistress is sweeter than flattery to yourself. 
Why, simply because she is Grace St. John. I 
imagine that it is her army life that has so blended 
unconventionality with perfect good breeding. She 
is her bluff, honest, high-spirited old father over 
again, only idealized, refined, and womanly. Then 
she must have inherited some rare qualities from 
her Southern mother : you see my aunt has told me 
all about them. I once met a Southern lady abroad, 
and although she was middle-aged she fascinated 
me more than any girl I had ever met. In the first 
place, there was an indescribable accent that I never 
heard in Europe, — slight, indeed, but very pleasing 
to the ear. I sometimes detect traces of it in Miss 
St. John's speech. Then this lady had a frankness 
and sincerity of manner which put you at your ease 
at once ; and yet with it all there was a fine reserve. 
You no more feared that she would blurt out some- 
thing unsanctioned by good taste than that she 
would dance a hornpipe. She was singularly gentle 
and retiring in her manner ; and yet one instinctively 
felt he would rather insult a Southern fire-eater than 
offend her. She gave the impression that she had 
been accustomed to a chivalric deference from men, 
rather than mere society attentions ; and one un- 
consciously infused a subtle homage in his very 
accent when speaking to her. Now, I imagine that 
Miss St. John's mother must have been closely akin 


130 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


to this woman in character. You know my weak- 
ness for analyzing everything. You used to say I 
couldn’t smoke a cigar without going into the phi- 
losophy of it. I had not spent one evening in the 
society of Miss St. John before I saw that she was a 
rara avis. Then her devotion to her invalid father 
is superb. She enlisted me in his service the first 
day of my arrival. Although old, crippled, often 
racked with pain, and afflicted with a temper which 
arbitrary command has not improved, she beguiles 
him out of himself, smiles away his gloom, — in 
brief, creates so genial an atmosphere about him 
that every breath is balm, and does it all, too, with- 
out apparent effort. You see no machinery at work. 
Now, this was all a new and very interesting study 
of life to me, an'd I studied it. There, too, is my 
aunt, who is quite as interesting in her way. Such 
women make general or wholesale cynicism impos- 
* sible, or else hypocritical and he was about to 
launch out into as extended an analysis of the old 
lady’s peculiarities, when Hilland interrupted him 
with a slap on the shoulder and a ringing laugh. 

“ Graham, you haven’t changed a mite. You 
discourse just as of old, when in our den at the 
university we befogged ourselves in tobacco-smoke 
and the denser obscurities of German metaphysics, 
only your theme is infinitely more interesting. 
Now, when I met my paragon, Grace, whom you 
have limned with the feeling of an artist rather than 
of an analyst, although with a blending of both, I 
fell in love with her.” 

“Yes, Hilland, it’s just like you to fall in love. 


the FklENDS. 


My fear has ever been that you would fall in love 
with a face some day, and not with a woman. But 
now I congratulate you from the depths of my 
soul.’' 

“ How comes it that you did not fall in love with 
one whom you admire so much ? You were not 
aware of my suit.” 

” I suppose it is not according to my nature to 
‘ fall in love,’ as you term it. The very phrase is 
repugnant to me. When a man is falling in any 
sense of the word, his reason is rather apt to be 
muddled and confused, and he cannot be very sure 
where he will land. If you had not appeared on 
the scene my reason would have approved of my 
marriage with Miss St. John, — that is, if I had seen 
the slightest chance of acceptance, which, of course, 
I never have. I should be an egregious fool were 
it otherwise.” 

” How about your heart ?” 

‘ ‘ The heart often leads to the sheerest folly, ’ ’ was 
the sharp rejoinder. 

Hilland laughed in his good-humored way. His 
friend’s reply seemed the result of irritation at the 
thought that the heart should have much to say 
when reason demurred. ” Well, Graham,” he said, 
kindly and earnestly, ” if I did not know you so 
well, I should say you were the most cold-blooded, 
frog-like fellow in existence. You certainly are an 
enigma to me on the woman-question. I must 
admit that my heart went headlong from the first ; 
but when at last reason caught up, and had time 
to get her breath and look the case over, she said 


ms SOMBRE RIVALS. 


132 

it was ‘ all right/ — far better than she had expected. 
To one of my temperament, however, it seems very 
droll that reason should lead the way to love, and 
the heart come limping after.” 

” Many a one has taken the amatory tumble who 
would be glad to reason his way up and back. 
But we need not- discuss this matter in the abstract, 
for we have too much that is personal to say to each 
other. You are safe ; your wonted good fortune has 
served you better than ever. All the wisdom of Solo- 
mon could not have enabled you to fall in love more 
judiciously. Indeed, when I come to think of it, 
the wisdom of Solomon, according to history, was 
rather at fault in these matters. Tell me how it all 
came about” (for he knew the story must come) ; 
” only outline the tale to-night. I’ve been speculat- 
ing and analyzing so long that it is late ; and the 
major, hearing voices in the grounds, may bring 
some of his old army ordnance to bear on us.” 

But Hilland, out of the abundance of his heart, 
found much to say ; and his friend sat cold, shivering 
in the sultry night, his heart growing more despair- 
ing as he saw the heaven of successful wooing that 
he could never enter. At last Hilland closed with 
the words, ” I say, Graham, are you asleep ?” 

” O, no/’ in a husky voice. 

“You are taking cold.” 

“ I believe I am.” 

“ I’m a brute to keep you up in this style. As I 
live, I believe there is the tinge of dawn in the 
east.” 

“May every dawn bring a happy day to you. 


THE ERIENDS. 133 

Warren/* was said so gently and earnestly that 
Hilland rested his arm on his friend’s shoulder as he 
replied, “You’ve a queer heart, Alford, but such 
as it is I would not exchange it for that of any man 
living.’’ Then abruptly, “ Do you hold to our old 
views that this life ends all ?’’ 

A thrill of something like exultation shot through 
Graham’s frame, as he replied, “ Certainly.’’ 

Hilland sprang up and paced the walk a moment, 
then said, “ Well, I don’t know. A woman like 
Grace St. John shakes my faith in our old belief. 
It seems profanation to assert that she is mere 
clay. ’’ 

The lurid gleam of light which the thought of 
ceasing to exist and to suffer had brought to 
Graham faded. It did seem like profanation. At 
any rate, at that moment it was a hideous truth 
that such a creature might by the chance oT any 
accident resolve into mere dust. And yet it seemed 
a truth which must apply to her as well as to the 
grossest of her sisterhood. He could only falter, 
“ She is very highly organized.’’ 

They both felt that it was a lame and impotent 
conclusion. 

But the spring of happiness was in Hilland ’s 
heart. The present was too rich for him to permit 
such dreary speculations, and he remarked cordially 
and laughingly, “ Well, Graham, we have made 
amends for our long separation and silence. We 
have talked all the summer night. I am rich, in- 
deed, in such a friend and such a sweetheart ; and 
the latter must truly approach perfection when my 


134 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


dear old philosopher of the stoic school could think 
it safe and wise to marry her, were all the conditions 
favorable. You don't wish that I was at the bottom 
of one of my mines, do you, Alford ?” 

Graham felt that the interview must end at once, 
so he rose and said, “ No, I do not. My reason 
approves of your choice. If you wish more, my 
‘ queer heart, such as it is, ’ approves of it also. If 
I had the power to change everything this moment 
I would not do so. You have fairly won your love, 
and may all the forces of nature conspire to prosper 
you both. But come," he added in a lighter vein, 
" Miss St. John may be watching and waiting for 
your return, and even imagining that I, with my 
purely intellectual bent, may regard you as a dis- 
turbing element in the problem, and so be led to 
eliminate you in a quiet, scientific manner." 

"Well, then, good-night, or morning, rather. 
Forgive a lover's garrulousness." 

" I was more garrulous than you, without half 
your excuse. No, I'll see you safely home. I wish 
to walk a little to get up a circulation. With your 
divine flame burning so brightly, I suppose you could 
sit through a zero night ; but you must remember 
that such a modicum of philosophy as I possess will 
not keep me warm. There, good-by, old fellow. 
Sleep the sleep of the just, and what is better in this 
chance medley world, of the happy. Don't be 
imagining that you have any occasion to worry 
about me." 

Hilland went to his room in a complacent mood, 
and more in love than ever. Had not his keen-eyed. 


THE FRIENDS. 


135 


analytical friend, after weeks of careful observation, 
testified to the exceeding worth of the girl of his 
heart ? He had been in love, and he had ever heard 
that love is blind. It seemed to him that his friend 
could never love as he understood the word ; and 
yet the peerless maiden had so satisfied the exac- 
tions of Graham’s taste and reason, and had proved 
herself so generally admirable, that he felt it would 
be wise and advantageous to marry her. 

“ It’s a queer way of looking at these things,” he 
concluded with a shrug, but then it is Graham’s 
way.” 

Soon he was smiling in his repose, for the great 
joy of his waking hours threw its light far down 
into the obscurity of sleep. 

Graham turned slowly away, and walked with 
downcast face to the rustic seat. He stood by it a 
moment, and then sank into it like a man who has 
reached the final limit of human endurance. He 
uttered nO sound, but at brief intervals a shiver 
ran through his frame. His head sank into 
his hands, and he looked and felt like one utterly 
crushed by a fate from which there was no escape. 
His ever-recurring thought was, ” I have but one 
life, and it’s lost, worse than lost. Why should I 
stagger on beneath the burden of an intolerable 
existence, which will only grow heavier as the forces 
of life fail ?” 

At last in his agony he uttered the words aloud. 
A hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a husky, 
broken voice said, “ Here is one reason.” 

He started up, and saw that his aunt stood beside 
him. 


136 


HIS SOMBRE RJVALS. 


The dawn was gray, but the face of the aged 
woman was grayer and more pallid. She did not en- 
treat, — her feeling seemed too deep for words, — but 
with clasped hands she lifted her tear-dimmed eyes 
to his. Her withered bosom rose and fell in short, 
convulsive sobs, and it was evident that she could 
scarcely stand. 

His eyes sank, and a sudden sense of guilt and 
shame at his forgetfulness of her overcame him. 
Then yielding to an impulse, all the stronger because 
mastering one who had • few impulses, he took 
her in his arms, kissed her repeatedly, and sup- 
ported her tenderly to the cottage. When at last 
they reached the quaint little parlor he placed her 
tenderly in her chair, and, taking her hand, he kissed 
it, and said solemnly, “ No, aunty, I will not die. 
I will live out my days for your sake, and do my 
best.’’ 

“ Thank God !” she murmured, — “ thank God !” 
and for a moment she leaned her head* upon his 
breast as he knelt beside her. Suddenly she lifted 
herself, with a return of her old energy; and he 
rose and stood beside her. She looked at him 
intently as if she would read his thoughts, and then 
shook her finger impressively as she said, “ Mark 
my words, Alford, mark my words : good will come 
of that promise.” 

‘ ‘ It has come already, ’ ’ he gently replied, ‘ ‘ in that 
you, my best friend, are comforted. Now go and rest 
and sleep. Have no fear, for your touch of love 
has broken all evil spells.” 

Graham went to his room, calmed by an inflexible 


THE FRIENDS. 




resolution. It was no longer a question of happi- 
ness or unhappiness, or even of despair ; it was 
simply a question of honor, of keeping his word. 
He sat down and read once more the paragraph in 
the marked copy of Emerson, “No man ever 
forgot — “ He gave the words a long, wistful look, 
and then closed the volume as if he were closing a 
chapter of his life. 

“ Well," he sighed, “ I did my best last night 
not to dispel their enchantment, for of course 
Hilland will tell her the substance of our talk. 
Now, it must be my task for a brief time to main- 
tain and deepen the impression that I have made." 

Having no desire for sleep, he softly paced his 
room, but it was not in nervous excitement. His 
pulse was quiet and regular, and his mind reverted 
easily to a plan of extended travel upon which he 
had been dwelling while in the woods. At last he 
threw himself upon his couch, and slept for an hour 
or two. On awaking he found that it was past the 
usual breakfast hour, and after a hasty toilet he 
went in search of his aunt, but was informed that 
she was still sleeping. 

“ Do not disturb her," he said to the servant. 
“ Let her sleep as long as she will." 

He then wrote a note, saying that he had decided 
to go to town to attend to some business which had 
been neglected in his absence, and was soon on his 
way to the train. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


NOBLE DECEPTION. 

I N the course of the forenoon HHland called on 
his friend, and was informed that Graham had 
gone to the city on business, but would return in 
the evening. He also learned that Mrs. Mayburn 
was indisposed, and had not yet risen. At these 
tidings Grace ran over to see her old friend, hoping 
to do something for her comfort, and the young girl 
was almost shocked when she saw Mrs. Mayburn’s 
pinched and pallid face upon her pillow. She 
seemed to have aged in a night. 

“You are seriously ill !“ she exclaimed, “ and 
you did not let me know. Mr. Graham should not 
have left you.” 

“ He did not know,” said the old lady, sharply, 
for the slightest imputation against Graham touched 
her keenly. “ He is kindness itself to me. He 
only heard this morning that I was sleeping, and he 
left word that I should not be disturbed. He also 
wrote a note explaining the business which had been 
neglected in his absence. O, I assure you, no 
one could be more considerate.” 

“ Dear, loyal Mrs. Mayburn, you won’t hear a 


NOBLE DECEPTION. 


139 


word against those you love. I think Mr. Graham 
wonderfully considerate for a man. You know we 
should not expect much of men. I have to manage 
two, and it keeps me busy, but never so busy that I 
cannot do all in my power for my dear old friend, 
ril get your breakfast myself, and bring it to you 
with my own hands, and force it upon you with the 
inexorable firmness of Sairy Gamp and she 
vanished to the kitchen. 

The old lady turned her face to the wall and 
moaned, “ Oh, if it could only have been ! Why 
is it that we so often set our hearts on that which is 
denied ? After a long, dull sleep of years it seemed 
as if my heart had wakened in my old age only to 
find how poor and lonely I am. Alford cannot stay 
with me, — I could not expect it, — neither can Grace ; 
and so I must go on alone to the end. I’m pun- 
ished, punished that years ago I did not make some 
one love me ; but I was self-sufficient then.” 

Her regret was deepened when Grace returned 
with a dainty breakfast, and waited on her with a 
daughter’s gentleness and tenderness, making her 
smile in spite of herself at her funny speeches, and 
beguiling her into enjoyment of the present moment 
with a witchery that none could resist. 

Presently Mrs. Mayburn sighed, ” It’s a fearfully 
hot day for Alford to be in town.” 

” For a student,” cried Grace, ” he is the most 
indefatigable man I ever heard of. Warren told me 
that they sat out there under the apple-tree and 
poured out their hearts till dawn. Talk about 
school girls babbling all night. My comment on 


140 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


Warren’s folly was a dose of quinine. It’s astonish- 
ing how these savants^ these intellectual giants, need 
taking care of like babies. Woman’s mission will 
never cease as long as there are learned men in the 
world. They will sit in a draught and discuss some 
obscure law concerning the moons of Jupiter; but 
when the law resulting in influenza manifests itself, 
then they learn our worth.” 

” O dear !” groaned Mrs. Mayburn, ” I didn’t 
give Alford any quinine. You were more provident 
than I.” 

” How could you, when you were asleep ?” 

“Ah, -true!” was the confused reply. “But 
then I should have been awake. I should have 
remembered that he did not come in when I did last 
night.” 

The faint color that stole into the face that had 
been so pale gave some surprise to the young girl. 
When once her mind was directed to a subject her 
intuitions were exceedingly keen. 

From the time the secret of his regard for her had 
been surprised from him, Graham had been a puzzle 
to her. Was he the cool, philosophical lover that he 
would have her think ? Hilland was so frank in 
nature and so wholly under her influence that it was 
next to impossible for him not to share with her his 
every thought. She had, therefore, learned sub- 
stantially the particulars of last night’s interview, 
and she could not fully accept his belief that Gra- 
ham’s intellect alone had been captivated. She 
remembered how he had leaned against the tree 
for support ; how pale he b^d been during the 


NOBLE DECEPTION. 


141 

evening that followed ; and how his hand had 
trembled in parting. She remembered his sudden 
flight to the mountains, his tireless energy there, as 
if driven on by an aching wound that permitted no 
rest. True, he had borne himself strongly and well 
in her presence the evening before ; and he had 
given the friend who knew' him so well the impres- 
sion that it was merely an instance of the quiet 
weighing of the pros and cons, in which, after much 
deliberation, the pros had won. There had been 
much in his course, too, to give color to this view 
of the case ; but her woman’s instinct suggested 
that there was something more, — something she did 
not know about ; and she would have been less or 
more than woman had she not wished to learn the 
whole truth in a matter of this nature. She hoped 
that her lover was right, and that Graham’s heart, in 
accordance with his development theory, was so in- 
choate as to be incapable of much suffering. She 
was not sure, however. There was something she 
surmised rather than detected. She felt it now in 
Mrs. Mayburn’s presence, and caught a glimpse of 
it in the flush that was fading from her cheeks. 
Had the nephew given his aunt his confidence ? or 
had she with her ripe experience and keen insight 
discovered the ultimate truth ? 

It was evident that while Mrs. Mayburn still 
loved her dearly, and probably was much disap- 
pointed that things had turned out as they had, she 
had given her loyalty to Graham, and would volun- 
tarily neither do nor say anything that would com- 
promise him. The slight flush suggested to Grace 


142 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS, 


that the aunt had awaited the nephew's return in 
the early dawn, and that they had spoken freely 
together before separating ; but she was the last one 
in the world to attempt to surprise a secret from 
another. 

Still she wished to know the truth, for she felt a 
little guilty over her reticence in regard to her 
relations with Hilland. She, perhaps, had made 
too much of the luxury of keeping her secret until it 
could shine forth as the sun of her life ; and Graham 
had been left in an ignorance that had not been fair 
to him. With a growing perception of his character, 
now that she had given thought to the subject, she 
saw that if he had learned to love her at all, it must 
have been in accordance with his nature, quietly, 
deliberately, even analytically. He was the last man 
to fall tumultuously in love. But when he had given 
it in his own way, could she be sure it was a cool, 
easily managed preference that he might at his 
leisure transfer to another who satisfied his reason 
and taste even more fully than herself? If this 
were true, her mind would be at rest ; and she could 
like Hilland’s friend heartily, as one of the most 
agreeable human oddities it had been her fortune to 
meet. She had serious misgivings, however, which 
Mrs. Mayburn’s sudden indisposition, and the marks 
of suffering upon her face, did not tend to banish. 

Whatever the truth might be, she felt that he had 
shown much thoughtfulness for her in his frankness 
with Hilland. He had rendered it unnecessary for 
her to conceal her knowledge of his regard. She 
need have no secrets, so far as. he was concerned. 


NOBLE DECEPTION. 


143 


The only question was as to the nature ot this 
regard. If the impression he sought to give her 
Ipver was correct, neither of them had cause for 
much solicitude. If to save them pain he was seeking 
to hide a deeper wound, it was a noble deception, 
and dictated by a noble, unselfish nature. If the 
latter supposition should prove true, she felt that 
she would discover it without any direct effort. But 
she also felt that her lover should be left, if possible, 
under the impression his friend had sought to make, 
and that Graham should have the solace of thinking 
he had concealed his feelings from them both. 

As the long evening shadows stretched eastward 
across the sloping lawn in front of the St. John 
cottage, the family gathered on the piazza to enjoy 
the welcome respite from the scorching heat of the 
day. 

The old major looked weary and overcome. A 
July sun was the only fire before which he had ever 
flmched. Hilland still appeared a little heavy from 
his long hot afternoon nap, his amends for the 
vigils of the previous night. Grace was enchanting 
in her light clinging draperies, which made her 
lovely form tenfold more beautiful, because clothed 
in perfect taste. The heat had deepened the flush 
upon her cheeks, and brought a soft languor into her 
eyes, and as she stood under an arch of the 
American woodbine, that mantled the supports of 
the piazza roof, she might easily have fulfilled an 
artist’s dream of summer. Hilland’s eyes kindled as 
he looked upon her, as she stood with averted face, 
conscious meanwhile of his admiration, and exulting 


144 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


in it. What sweeter incense is ever offered to a 
woman ? 

“Grace/' he whispered, “you would create a 
pulse in a marble statue to-night. You never 
looked more lovely." 

“ There is a glamour on your eyes, Warren," she 
replied ; and yet the quick flash of joy that came 
into her face proved the power of his words, which 
* still had all the exquisite charm of novelty. 

“ It's a glamour that will last while I do," he 
responded, earnestly. “ Are not this scene and hour 
perfect ? and you are the gem of it all. I don't see 
how a man could ask or wish for more than 1 have 
to-night, except that it might last forever." A 
shadow passed over his face, and he added present- 
ly, “To think that after a few weeks I must return 
to those blasted mines ! One thing is settled, how- 
ever. I shall close out my interests there as 
speedily as possible ; and were it not for my obliga- 
tions to others. I'd never go near them again. I 
have money enough twice over, and am a fool to 
miss one hour with you." 

“You will be all the happier, Warren, if you 
close up your interests in the West in a manly, 
business-like way. I always wish to be as proud of 
you as I am now. What's more, I don't believe in 
idle men, no matter how rich they are. I should be 
worried at once if you had nothing to do but sit 
around and make fine speeches. You'd soon weary 
of the sugar-plum business, and so should I. I have 
read somewhere that the true way to keep a man a 
lover is to give him plenty of work." 


NOBLE DECEPTION, 


145 


Will you choose my work for me Y' 

‘‘ No ; anything you like, so it is not specula- 
tion/' 

“ I think ril come and be your father’s gar- 
dener/' 

“ If you do," she replied, with a decisive little nod, 
" you will have to rake and hoe so many hours 
a day before you can have any dinner." 

‘‘ But you, fair Eve, would bring your fancy work, 
and sit with me in the shade." 

" The idea of a gardener sitting in the shade, with 
weeds growing on every side." 

" But you would, my Eve." 

" Possibly, after I had seen that you had earned 
your bread by the ‘ perspiration of your brow,' as a 
very nice maiden lady, a neighbor of ours, always 
phrases it." 

‘ ‘ That shall be my calling as soon as I can get 
East again. Major, I apply for the situation of 
gardener as soon as I can sell out my interests in 
the mines." 

" I have nothing to do with it," was the reply. 
" Grace commands this post, and while here you 
are under her orders." 

" And you’ll find out, too, what a martinet I 
am," she added. "There’s no telling how often 
I’ll put yoQ under arrest and mount guard over you 
myself. So !" 

" What numberless breaches of discipline there 
will be !" 

Lovers’ converse consists largely in tone and 
glance, and these cannot be written ; and were this 


146 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


possible, it could have but the slenderest interest to 
the reader. 

After a transient pause Hilland remarked, Think 
of poor Graham in the fiery furnace of New York 
to-day. I can imagine what a wilted and dilapi- 
dated-looking specimen he will be if he escapes 
alive — By Jove, there he is !'" and the subject of 
his speech came as briskly up the walk as if the 
thermometer had been in the seventies instead of the 
nineties. His dress was quiet and elegant, and his 
form erect and step elastic. 

As he approached the piazza and doffed his hat, 
Hilland cried, “ Graham, you are the coolest fellow 
I ever saw. I was just commiserating you, and 
expecting you to look like a cabbage — no, rose — 
leaf that had been out in the sun ; and you appear 
just as if you had stepped from a refrigerator." 

" All a matter of temperament and will, my dear 
fellow. I decided I would not be hot to-day ; and 
Tve been very comfortable." 

" Why did you not decide not to be co:d last 
night ?" 

" I was so occupied with your interminable yarns 
that I forgot to think about it. Miss Grace, for 
your sake and on this evening, I might wish that 
there was a coolness between us, but from your kind 
greeting I see there is not. Good-evening, major. 
I have brought with me a slight proof that I do not 
forget my friends and he handed him a large 
package of newspapers, several of them being finely 
illustrated foreign prints. 

" I promote you on the spot," cried the delighted 


NOBLE DECEPTION. 


147 


veteran. “ I felt that fate owed me some amends 
for this long, horrid day. My paper did not come 
this morning, and I had too much regard for the 
lives of my household to send any one up the hot 
streets after one. '' 

“ O papa !” cried Grace, “ forgive me that I did 
not discover the fact I’m sure I saw you reading 
a paper.” 

” It was an old one. I read it through again, 
advertisements and all. O, I know you. You’d 
have turned out the whole garrison at twelve M., 
had you found it out.” 

Graham dropped carelessly into an easy-chair, 
and they all noted the pleasure with which the old 
gentleman adjusted his glasses, and scanned the 
pictures of the world’s current history. Like many 
whose sight is failing, and to whom the tastes and 
memories of childhood are returning, the poor old 
man found increasing delight in a picture which 
suggested a great deal, and aided him to imagine 
more ; and he would often beguile his tedium by 
the hour with the illustrated journals. 

” Mr. Graham,” said Grace, after a pause in their 
talk, ” have you seen your aunt since your return ?” 

” No,” he replied, turning hastily toward her. 

” She is not very well ; I’ve been to see her 
twice. ” 

He gave her a momentary but searching glance, 
rose instantly, and said, “Please excuse me, then. 
I feel guilty that I have delayed a moment, but this 
piazza was so inviting !” and he hastened away. 

“ Does he look and act like a man who ‘ hid a 


148 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


secret sorrow’?’' whispered Hilland-, confidently. 
“ I never saw him appear so well before.” 

Grace smiled, but kept her thoughts to herself. 
To her also Graham had never appeared so well. 
There was decision in his step and slightest move* 
ment. The old easy saunter of leisure was gone ; 
the old half-dreamy and slightly cynical eyes of the 
student showed a purpose which was neither slight 
nor indefinite ; and that brief, searching glance, — 
what else could it be than a query as to the con- 
fidences his aunt may have bestowed during the 
day ? Moreover, why did he avoid looking at her 
unless there was distinct occasion for his glance ? 

She would have known too well had she heard 
poor Graham mutter, '/'My will must be made of 
Bessemer steel if I can see her often as she looked 
to-night and live.’/ 

In the evening Hilland walked over to call .on his 
friend and make inquiries. Through the parlor 
windows he saw Graham reading to his aunt, who 
reclined on a lounge ; and he stole away again with- 
out disturbing them. 

The next few days passed uneventfully away, and 
Graham’s armor was almost proof against even the 
penetration of Grace. He did not assume any mask 
of gayety. He seemed to be merely his old self, 
with a subtle difference, and a very unobtrusive air 
of decision in all his movements. He was with his 
friend a great deal ; and she heard them talking over 
their old life with much apparent zest. He was as 
good company for the major as ever, and when at 
whist played so good a game as to show that he was 


NOBLE DECEPTION. 


149 


giving it careful attention. There was a gentleness 
toward his aunt that rather belied his character of 
stoic philosopher. Indeed, he seemed to have 
dropped this phase also, and was simply a well-bred 
man of the world, ac^oiding reference to himself, 
and his past or present views, as far as possible. 

To a question of Hilland’s one day he replied, 
“ No ; I shall not go back to my studies at present. 
As I told you the other night, my excursion into 
the world has shown me the advantage of studying 
it rhore fully. While I shall never be a Croesus like^ 
yourself, I am modestly independent ; and I mean 
to see the world we live in, and then shall know 
better what I am studying about.” 

When Hilland told Grace of this purpose, she felt it 
was in keeping with all the rest. It might mean what 
was on the surface ; it might mean more. It might 
be a part of the possible impulse that had driven 
him into the Vermont woods, or the natural and 
rational step he would have taken had he never seen 
her. At any rate, she felt that he was daily growing 
more remote, and that by a nice gradation of effort 
he was consciously withdrawing himself. And yet 
she could scarcely dwell on a single word or act, and 
say, ” This proves it.” His manner toward her was 
most cordial. When they conversed he looked at 
her steadily and directly, and would respond in kind 
to her mirthful words and Hilland’s broad raillery ; 
but she never detected one of the furtive, lingering 
glances that she now remembered with compunction 
were once frequent. It was quite proper that this 
should be so, but it was unnatural. If hitherto she 


150 HIS SOMBRE RIVALS, 

had only pleased his taste and satisfied his reason, it 
would be a safe and harmless pastime for him to lin- 
ger near her still in thought and reality. If he was 
struggling with a passion that had struck its root 
deep, then there was good reason for that steady 
withdrawal from her society which he managed so 
naturally that no one observed it but herself. 
Hilland had no misgivings, and she suggested 
none ; but whenever she was in the presence of 
Graham or Mrs. Mayburn, although their courtesy 
and kind manner were unexceptionable, she felt 
there was “ something in the air.'* 


CHAPTER XV. 


“l WISH HE HAD KNOWN.*' 

T he heat continued so oppressive that the 
major gave signs of prostration, and Grace 
decided to take him to his old haunt by the sea- 
shore. The seclusion of their cottage was, of course, 
more agreeable to Hilland and herself under the 
circumstances ; but Grace never hesitated when her 
father was concerned. Shortly after the decision 
was reached, Hilland met his friend, and promptly 
urged that he and Mrs. Mayburn should accompany 
them. 

“Certainly," was the quiet reply, “if my aunt 
wishes to go." 

But for some cause, if not for the reasons given, 
the old lady was inexorable that evening, even 
though the major with much gallantry urged her 
compliance. She did not like the sea-shore. It 
did not agree with her ; and, what was worse, she 
detested hotels. She was better in her own quiet 
nook, etc. Alford might go, if he chose. 

But Graham when appealed to said it was both 
his duty and his pleasure to remain with his aunt, 
especially as he was going abroad as soon as he 


152 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


could arrange his affairs. “ Don’t put on that 
injured air,” he added, laughingly, to Hilland. “ As 
if you needed me at present ! You two are sufficient 
for yourselves ; and why should I tramp after you 
like the multitude I should be ?” , 

“ What do you know about our being sufficient 
for ourselves. I’d like to ask?” was the bantering 
response. 

” I have the best authority for saying what I 
do, — written authority, and that of a sage, too. 
Here it is, heavily underscored by a hand that I 
imagine is as heavy as your own. Ah ! Miss Grace’s 
conscious looks prove that I am right,” he added, 
as he laid the open volume of Emerson, which he 
had returned, before her. ” I remember reading 
that paragraph the first evening I came to my aunt’s 
house ; and I thought it a very curious statement. 
It made me feel as if I were a sort of polyp or 
mollusk, instead of a man.” 

‘ ‘ Let me see the book, ’ ’ cried H illand. ‘ ‘ O, yes, ’ ’ 
he continued, laughing ; “ I remember it all well, — 
the hopes, the misgivings with which I sent the 
volume eastward on its mission, — the hopes and 
fears that rose when the book was acknowledged 
with no chidings or coldness, and also with no allu- 
sions to the marked passage, — the endless surmises as 
to what this gentle reader would think of the senti- 
ments within these black lines. Ha ! ha ! Graham. 
No doubt but this is Sanscrit ; and all the professors 
of all the universities could not interpret it to you.” 

” That’s what I said in substance on the even- 
ing referred to, — that Emerson never learned this at 


“/ IV/S// HE HAD known:' 153 

a university. I confess that it's an experience that is 
and ever will be beyond me. But it’s surely good 
authority for remaining here with my aunt, who 
needs me more than you do.” 

” How is it, then, Mr. Graham, that you can leave 
your aunt for months of travel?” Grace asked. 

” Why, Grace,'” spoke up Mrs. Mayburn, quickly, 
” you cannot expect Alford to transform himself 
into an old lady’s life-long attendant. He will enjoy 
his travel and come back to me.” 

The young girl mad^e no answer, but thought, 
” Their defensive alliance is a strong one.” 

” Besides,” continued the old lady, after a mo- 
ment, ” I think it’s very kind of him to remain with 
me, instead of going to the beach for his own 
pleasure and the marring of yours.” 

” Now, that’s putting it much too strong,” cried 
Hilland. ” Graham never marred our pleasure.” 

” And I hope he never will,” was the low, earnest 
response. To Grace’s ear it sounded more like a 
vow or the expression of a controlling purpose than 
like a mere friendly remark. 

The next day the St. John cottage was alive with 
the bustle of preparation for departure. Graham 
made no officious offers of assistance, which, of 
course, would be futile, but quietly devoted himself 
to the major. Whenever Grace appeared from the 
upper regions, she found her father amused or in- 
terested, and she smiled her gratitude. In the 
evening she found a chance to say in a low aside, 
“ Mr. Graham, you are keeping your word to be 
my friend. If the sea-breezes prove as beneficial to 


154 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


papa as your society to-day, I shall be glad indeed. 
You don’t know how much you have aided me by 
entertaining him so kindly.” 

Both her tone and glance were very gentle as she 
spoke these words, and for a moment his silence 
and manner perplexed her. Then he replied lightly, 
“You are mistaken. Miss Grace. - Your father has 
been entertaining me.” 

They were interrupted at this point, and Graham 
seemed to grow more remote than ever. 

Hilland was parting frorr\ his friend with evident 
and sincere regret. He had made himself very use- 
ful in packing, strapping trunks, and in a general 
eagerness to save his betrothed from -all fatigue; 
but whenever occasion offered he would sally forth 
upon Graham, who, with the major, followed the 
shade on the piazza. Some jocular speech usually 
accompanied his appearance, and he always receiyed 
the same in kind with such liberal interest that he 
remarked to Grace more than once, “You are the 
only being in the world for whom Td leave Graham 
during his brief stay in this land.” 

” O, return to him by all means,” she had said 
archly upon one occasion. ” We did very well alone 
last year before we were aware of your existence.” 

You may not care,” was his merry response, 
” but it is written in one of the oldest books of the 
world, * It is not good for man to be alone.’ O 
Grace, what an infinite difference there is between 
love for a woman like you and the strongest friend- 
ship between man and man ! Graham just suits me 
as a friend. After a separation of years I find him 


“/ PFISB BE HAD HNOWN^ 155 

just the same even-pulsed, half-cynical, yet genial 
good fellow he always was. It’s hard to get within 
his shell ; but when you do, you find the kernel 
sweet and sound to the core, even if it is rather dry. 
From the time we struck hands as boys there has 
never been an unpleasant jar in our relations. We 
supplement each other marvellously ;'^but how in. 
finitely more and beyond all this is your love '. 
How it absorbs and swallows up every other con- 
sideration, so that one hour with you is more to me 
than an age with all the men of wit and wisdom that 
ever lived P No; I’m not a false friend when I say that 
I am more than content to go and remain with you ; 
and if Graham had a hundredth part as much heart 
as brains he would understand me. Indeed, his very 
intellect serves in the place of a heart after a 
fashion ; for he took Emerson on trust so intelli- 
gently as to comprehend that I should not be incon- 
solable. ” 

“ Mr. Graham puzzles me,” Grace had remarked, 
as she absently inspected the buttons on one of her 
father’s vests. ” I never met just such a man 
before.” 

“And probably never will again. He has been 
isolated and peculiar from childhood. I know him 
well, and he has changed but little in essentials 
since I left him over two years ago.” 

“I. wish I had your complacent belief about 
him,” was her mental conclusion. “ I sometimes 
think you are right, and again I feel as if some one 
in almost mortal pain is near me, and that I am to 
blame in part.” 


i56 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS, 


Whist was dispensed with the last night they were 
together, for the evening was close, and all were 
weary. Grace thought Graham looked positively 
haggard ; but whether by design or chance, he kept 
in the shadows of the piazza most of the time. Still 
she had to admit that he was the life of the party. 
Mrs. Mayburn was apparently so overcome by the 
heat as to be comparatively silent ; and Hilland 
openly admitted that the July day and his exertions 
had used him up. Therefore the last gathering at 
the St. Johns’ cottage came to a speedy end ; and 
Graham not only said good-night, but also good-by ; 
for, as he explained, business called him to town 
early the following morning. He parted fraternally 
with Hilland, giving a promise to spend a day with 
him before he sailed for Europe. Then he broke 
away, giving Grace as a farewell only a strong, warm 
pressure of the hand, and hastened after his aunt, 
who had walked on slowly before. The major, after 
many friendly expressions, had retired quite early 
in the evening. 

Grace saw the dark outline of Graham’s form disap- 
pear like a shadow, and every day thereafter he grew 
more shadowy to her. To a degree she did not 
imagine possible he had baffled her scrutiny and left 
her in doubt. Either he had quietly and philosoph- 
ically accepted the situation, or he wished her to 
think so. In either case there was nothing to be 
done. Once away with father and lover she had 
her world with her ; and life grew richer and more 
full of content every day. 

Lassitude and almost desperate weariness were 


“7 IVISI/ HE HAD KNOWN. 


157 


in Graham’s step as he came up the path the 
following evening, for there was no further reason 
to keep up the part he was acting. When he 
greeted his aunt he tried to appear cheerful, but she 
said gently, “ Put on no mask before me, Alford. 
Make no further effort. You have baffled even 
Grace, and thoroughly satisfied your friend that all 
is well. Let the strain cease now ; and let my 
home be a refuge while you remain. Your w'ound 
is one that time only can heal. You have made an 
heroic struggle not to mar their happiness, and I 
am proud of you for it. But don’t try to deceive 
me or put the spur any longer to your jaded spirit. 
Reaction into new hopes and a new life will come 
all the sooner if you give way for the present to 
your mood.” 

The wise old woman would have been right in 
dealing with most natures. But Graham would not 
give way to his bitter disappointment, and for him 
there would come no reaction. He quietly read to 
her the evening papers, and after she had retired 
stole out and gazed for hours on the St. John cot- 
tage, the casket that had contained for him the 
jewel of the world. Then, compressing his lips, he 
returned to his room with the final decision, ” I will 
be her friend for life ; but it must be an absent 
friend. I think my will is strong ; but half the 
width of the world must be between us.” 

For the next two weeks he sought to prepare his 
aunt for a long separation. He did not hide his feel- 
ing ; indeed, he spoke of it with a calmness which, 
while it surprised, also convinced her that it would 


I5S 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


dominate his life. She was made to see clearly the 
necessity of his departure, if he would keep his 
promise to live and do his best. He promised to 
be a faithful and voluminous correspondent, and 
she knew she would live upon his letters. After 
the lapse of three weeks he had arranged his affairs 
so as to permit a long absence, and then parted with 
his aunt as if he had been her son. 

“ Alford," she said, " all that I have is yours, as 
you will find in my will." 

" Dear aunty," was his reply, " in giving me 
your love you have given me all that 1 crave. I 
have more than enough for my wants. Forgive me 
that I cannot stay ; but I cannot. I have learned 
the limit of my power of endurance. I know that I 
cannot escape myself or my memories, but new 
scenes divert my thoughts. Here, I believe, I should 
go mad, or else do something wild and desperate. 
Forgive me, and do not judge me harshly because I 
leave you. Perhaps some day this fever of unrest 
v/ill pass away. When it does, rest assured you 
shall see me again. 

He then went to the sea-side resort where Hilland 
with the major and his daughter was sojourning, and 
never had they seen a man who appeared so far re- 
moved from the lackadaisical, disconsolate lover. 
His dress was elegant, although very quiet, his step 
firm and prompt, and his manner that of a man who 
is thoroughly master of the situation. The major was 
ill from an indiscretion at the table during the pre- 
ceding day, and Grace could not leave him very 
long. He sent to._his favorite companion and 


“/ IVISj^ he had known:^ 


159 


antagonist at whist many feeling messages and 
sincere good wishes, and they lost nothing in hearty 
warmth as they came from Grace’s lips ; and for 
some reason, which she could scarcely explain to 
herself, tears came into her eyes as she gave him her 
hand in parting. 

He had been laughing and jesting vivaciously a 
moment before ; but as he looked into her face, so full 
of kindly feeling which she could not wholly repress, 
his own seemed to grow rigid, and the hand she held 
was so cold and tense as to remind her of a steel 
gauntlet. In the supreme effort of his spiritual 
nature he belied his creed. His physical being was 
powerless in the grasp of the dominant soul. No 
martyr at the stake ever suffered m.ore than he at 
that moment, but he merely said with quiet empha- 
sis, “ Good-by, Grace St. John. I shall not forget 
my promise, nor can there come a day on which I 
shall not wish you all the happiness you deserve.” 

He then bowed gravely and turned away. She 
hastily sought her room, and then burst into an 
irrepressible passion of tears. ” It’s all in vain,” 
she sobbed. ” I felt it. I know it. He suffers as 
I should suffer, and his iron will cannot disguise the 
truth.” 

The friends strolled away up the beach for their 
final talk, and at length Hilland came back in a 
somewhat pensive but very complacent mood. 
Grace looked at him anxiously, but his first sen- 
tences reassured her. 

'‘Well,” he exclaimed, “if Graham is odd, he’s 
certainly the best and most sensible fellow that ever 


i6o 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


lived, and the most steadfast of friends. Here 
we’ve been separated for years, and yet, f<^r any 
change in his attitude toward me, we might have 
parted overnight at the university. He was as 
badly smitten by the girl I love as a man of his 
temperament could be ; but on learning the facts he 
recognizes the situation with a quiet good taste 
which leaves nothing to be desired. He made it 
perfectly clear to me that travel for the present was 
only a broader and more effective way of continuing 
his career as a student, and that when tired of 
wandering he can go back to books with a larger 
knowledge of how to use them. One thing he has 
made clearer still, — if we do not see each other for 
ten years, he will come back the same stanch 
friend.” 

” I think you are right, Warren. He certainly 
has won my entire respect. 

“I’m glad he didn’t win anything more, sweet- 
heart.” 

” That ceased to be possible long before he came, 
but I — I wish he had known it,” was her hesitating 
response, as she pushed Hilland’s hair back from his 
heated brow. 

” Nonsense, you romantic little woman ! You 
imagine he has gone away with a great gaping 
wound in his heart. Graham is the last man in the 
world for that kind of thing, and no one would 
smile more broadly than he, did he know of your 
gentle solicitude.” 

Grace was silent a moment, and then stole away 
to her father’s side* 


“/ WISH HE HAD KNOWN:* l6l 

The next tidings they had of Graham was a letter 
dated among the- fiords and mountains of Norway. 

At times no snowy peak in that wintry land 
seemed more shadowy or remote to Grace than he. 
Again, while passing to and fro between their own 
and Mrs. Mayburn's cottage in the autumn, she 
would see him, with almost the vividness of life, 
deathly pale as when he leaned against the apple- 
tree at their well-remembered interview. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


THE CLOUD IN THE SOUTH. 

T he summer heat passed speedily, and the 
major returned to his cottage invigorated and 
very complacent over his daughter’s prospects. Hil- 
land had proved himself as manly and devoted a 
lover as he had been an ardent and eventually pa- 
tient suitor. The bubbling, overflowing stream of 
happiness in Grace’s heart deepened into a wide 
current, bearing her on from day to day toward 
a future that promised to satisfy every longing of 
her woman’s heart. There was, of course, natural 
regret that Hilland was constrained to spend sev- 
eral months in the West in order to settle up his 
large interests with a due regard to the rights of 
others, and yet she would not have it otherwise. 
She was happy in his almost unbounded devotion ; 
she would have been less happy had this devotion 
kept him at her side when his man’s part in the 
world required his presence elsewhere. Therefore 
she bade him farewell with a heart that was not so 
very heavy, even though tears gemmed her eyes. 

The autumn and early winter months lapsed quiet- 
ly and uneventfully, and the inmates of the two cot- 


THE CLOUD IN THE SOUTH, 163 

tages ever remembered that period of their lives as 
the era of letters, — Graham’s from over the sea 
abounding in vivid descriptions of scenes that to 
Mrs. Mayburn’s interested eyes were like glimpses 
of another world, and Hilland’s, even more vo- 
luminous and infinitely more interesting to one fair 
reader, to whom they were sacred except as she 
doled out occasional paragraphs which related suffi- 
ciently to the general order of things to be read 
aloud. 

Graham’s letters, however, had a deep interest to 
Grace, who sought to trace in them the working of 
his mind in regard to herself. She found it difficult, 
for his letters were exceedingly impersonal, while the 
men and things he saw often stood out upon his page 
with vivid realism. It seemed to her that he grew 
more shadowy, and that he was wandering rather 
than travelling, drifting whithersoever his fancy or 
circumstances pointed the way. It was certain he 
avoided the beaten paths, and freely indulged his 
taste for regions remote and comparatively un- 
known. His excuse was that life was far more 
picturesque and unhackneyed, with a chance for 
an occasional adventure, in lands where one was 
not jostled by people with guide-books, — that he 
saw men and women as the influences of the ages 
had been fashioning them, and not convention- 
alized by the mode of the hour. “ Chief of all,” 
he concluded jestingly, ” I can send to my dear 
aunt descriptions of people and scenery that she will 
not find better set forth in half a dozen books within 
her reach.” 


164 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


After a month in Norway, he crossed the moun- 
tains into Sweden, and as winter approached drifted 
rapidly to the south and east. One of his letters was 
dated at the entrance of the Himalayas in India, 
and expressed his purpose to explore one of the 
grandest mountain systems in the world. 

Mrs. Mayburn gloated over the letters, and Grace 
laughingly told her she had learned more about geog- 
raphy since her nephew had gone abroad than in all 
her life before. The major, also, was deeply inter- 
ested in them, especially as Graham took pains in 
his behalf to give some account of the military or- 
ganizations with which he came in contact. They 
had little of the nature of a scientific report. The 
soldier, his life and weapons, were sketched with a 
free hand merely, and so became even to the ladies 
a picturesque figure rather than a military abstrac- 
tion. From time to time a letter appeared in Mrs. 
Mayburn’s favorite journal signed by the initials of 
the traveller ; and these epistles she cut out and 
pasted most carefully in a book which Grace jestingly 
called her “ family Bible.” 

But as time passed, Graham occupied less and less 
space in the thoughts of all except his aunt. The 
major’s newspaper became more absorbing than 
ever, for the clouds gathering in the political skies 
threatened evils that seemed to him without remedy. 
Strongly Southern and conservative in feeling, he 
was deeply incensed at what he termed “ Northern 
fanaticism.” Only less hateful to him was a class 
in the South, known in the parlance of the times as 
” fire-eaters.” 


THE CLOUD IH THE SOUTH. 165 

All through the winter and spring of i860 he had 
his “ daily growl/’ as Grace termed it ; and she as- 
sured him it was growing steadily deeper and 
louder. Yet it was evidently a source of so much 
comfort to him that she always smiled in secret over 
his invective, — noting, also, that while he deplored 
much that was said and done by the leaders of the 
day, the prelude of the great drama interested him so 
deeply that he half forgot his infirmities. In fact, she 
had more trouble with Hilland, who had returned, 
and was urging an early date for their marriage. 
Her lover was an ardent Republican, and hated sla- 
very with New England enthusiasm. The arrogance 
and blindness of the South had their counterpart at 
the North, and Hilland had not escaped the infec- 
tion. He was much inclined to belittle the re- 
sources of the former section, to scoff at its threats, 
and to demand that the North should peremptorily 
and imperiously check all further aggressions of sla- 
very. At first it required not a little tact on the part 
of Grace to preserve political harmony between 
father and lover ; but the latter speedily recognized 
that the major’s age and infirmities, together with 
his early associations, gave him almost unlimited 
privilege to think and say what he pleased. Hil- 
land soon came to hear with good-natured non- 
chalance his Northern allies berated, and considered 
himself well repaid by one mirthful, grateful glance 
from Grace. 

After all, what was any political squabble com- 
pared with the fact that Grace had promised to 
marry him in June.^ The settlement of the differ 


BIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


1 66 

ence between the North and South was only a ques- 
tion of time, and that, too, in his belief, not far re- 
mote. 

“Why should I worry about it ?“ he said to 
Grace. “ When the North gets angry enough to 
put its foot down, all this bluster about State-rights, 
and these efforts to foist slavery on a people who are 
disgusted with it, will cease.” 

“ Take care,” she replied archly. “ Tm a South- 
ern girl. Think what might happen if I put my foot 
down. ” 

“ O, when it comes to you,” was his quick re- 
sponse, “ Tm the Democratic party. I will get 
down on my knees at any time ; I'll yield anything 
and stand everything.” 

“ I hope you will be in just such a frame of mind 
ten years hence.” 

It was well that the future was hidden from her. 

Hilland wrote to his friend, asking, indeed almost 
insisting, that he should return in time for the wed- 
ding. Graham did not come, and intimated that 
he was gathering materials which might result in a 
book. He sent a letter, however, addressed to them 
both, and full of a spirit of such loyal good-will that 
Hilland said it was like a brother’s grip. “ Well, 
well,” he concluded, “ if Graham has the book- 
making fever upon him, we shall have to give him up 
indefinitely.” 

Grace was at first inclined to take the same view, 
feeling that, even if he had been sorely wound- 
ed, his present life and the prospects it gave of 
authorship had gained so great a fascination that he 


THE CLOUD IN THE SOUTH. 


167 


would come back eventually with only a memory of 
what he had suffered. Her misgivings, however, 
returned when, on seeing the letter, Mrs. May- 
burn’s eyes became suddenly dimmed with tears. 
She turned away abruptly and seemed vexed with 
herself for having shown the emotion, but only 
said quietly, “ I once thought Alford had no heart ; 
but that letter was not written ‘ out of his head/ 
as we used to say when children.” 

She gave Grace no reason to complain of any lack 
of affectionate interest in her preparations ; and when 
the wedding day came she assured the blushing girl 
that ‘ ‘ no one had ever looked upon a lovelier bride. 

Ever mindful of her father, Grace would take no 
wedding journey, although her old friend offered to 
come and care for him. She knew well how essen- 
tial her voice and hand were to his comfort ; and 
she would not permit him to entertain, even for a 
moment, the thought that in any sense he had lost 
her. So they merely returned to his favorite haunt 
by the sea, and Hilland was loyal to the only condi- 
tion in their engagement, — that she should be per- 
mitted to keep her promise to her dying mother, 
and never leave her father to the care of others, un- 
less under circumstances entirely beyond her con- 
trol. 

Later in the season Mrs. Mayburn joined them at 
the beach, for she found her life at the cottage too 
lonely to be endured. 

It was a summer of unalloyed happiness^ to Hil- 
land and his wife, and the major promised to renew 
his youth in the warm sunlight of his prosperity. 


i68 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


The exciting presidential canvass afforded abundant 
theme for the daily discussions in his favorite cor- 
ner of the piazza, where, surrounded by some vet- 
eran cronies whom he had known in former years, he 
joined them in predictions and ominous head-shak- 
ings over the monstrous evils that would follow the 
election of Mr. Lincoln. Hilland, sitting in the back- 
ground with Grace, would listen and stroke his tawny 
beard as he glanced humorously at his wife, who 
knew that he was working, quietly out of deference 
to his father-in-law, but most effectively, in the Re- 
publican campaign. Although Southern born she 
had the sense to grant to men full liberty of per- 
sonal opinion, — a quality that it would be well for 
many of her sisterhood to imitate. Indeed, she 
would Jiave despised a man who had not sufficient 
force to think for himself ; and she loved her hus- 
band all the more because in some of his views he 
differed radically with her father and herself. 

Meantime the cloud gathering in the South grew 
darker and more portentous ; and after the election 
of President Lincoln the lightning of hate and pas- 
sion began to strike from it directly at the nation's 
life. The old major was both wrong and right in 
regard to the most prominent leaders of the day. 
Many whom he deemed the worst fanatics in the 
land were merely exponents of a public opinion that 
was rising like an irresistible tide from causes be- 
yond human control, — from the God-created con- 
science illumined by His own truth. In regard to the 
instigators of the Rebellion, he was right. Instead 
of representing their people, they deceived and mis- 


THE CLOUD IN THE SOUTH. 169 

led them; and, with an astute understanding of the 
chivalrous, hasty Southern temper, they so wrought 
upon their pride of section by the false presentation 
of fancied and prospective wrongs, that loyalty to 
the old flag, which at heart they loved, was swept 
away by the madness which precedes destruction. 
Above all and directing all was the God of nations ; 
and He had decreed that slavery, the gangrene in 
the body politic, must be cut out, even though it 
should be with the sword. The surgery was heroic, 
indeed ; but as its result the slave, and especially the 
master and his posterity, will grow into a large, 
healthful, and prosperous life ; and the evidences of 
such life are increasing daily. 

At the time of which I am writing, however, the 
future was not dreamed of by the sagacious Lincoln 
even, or his cabinet, much less was it foreseen by 
the humbler characters of my story. Hilland after 
reading his daily journal would sit silent for a long 
time with contracted brow. The white heat of 
anger was slowly kindling in his heart and in that 
of the loyal North ; and the cloud in the South 
began to throw its shadow over the hearth of the 
happy wife. 

Although Hilland hated slavery, it incensed him 
beyond measure that the South could be made to 
believe that the North would break through or in- 
fringe upon the constitutional safeguards thrown 
around the institution. At the same time he knew, 
and it seemed to him every intelligent man should 
understand, that if a sufficient majority should de- 
cide to forbid the extension of the slave system to 


ms SOMBRE RIVALS. 


170 

new territory, that should end the question, or else 
the constitution was not worth the paper on which 
it was written. “ Law and order," was his motto ; 
and " All changes and reforms under the sanction 
of law, and at the command of the majority," his 
political creed. 

The major held the Southern view. " Slaves are 
property, ’ ’ he said ; ‘ ‘ and the government is bound 
to permit a man to take his property where he 
pleases, and protect him in all his rights." The 
point where the veteran drew the line was in disloy- 
alty to the. flag which he had sworn to defend, and 
for which he had become a cripple for life. As the 
Secession spirit became more rampant and open in 
South Carolina, the weight of his invective fell more 
heavily upon the leaders there than upon the hitherto 
more detested abolitionists. 

When he read the address of Alexander H. Ste- 
phens, delivered to the same people on the following 
evening, wherein that remarkable man said, " My 
object is not to stir up strife, but to allay it ; not 
to appeal to your passions, but to your reason. 
Shall the people of the South secede from the 
Union in consequence of the election of Mr. Lin- 
coln ? My countrymen, I tell you frankly, can- 
didly, and earnestly, that I do not think they ought. 
In my judgment the election of no man, constitu- 
tionally chosen, is sufficient cause for any State to 
separate from the Union. It ought to stand by and 
aid still in maintaining the constitution of the 
country. We are pledged to maintain the constitu- 
tion. Many of us are sworn to support it," — when 


THE CLOUD IN THE SOUTH. 171 

the veteran came to these words, he sprang to his 
feet without a thought of his crutch, and cried in a 
tone with which he would order a charge, There is 
the man who ought to be President. Read that 
speech.'* 

Hilland did read it aloud, and then said thought- 
fully, “Yes; if the leaders on both sides were of 
the stamp of Mr. Stephens and would stand firm, all 
questions at issue could be settled amicably under 
the constitution. But I fear the passion of the 
South, fired by the unscrupulous misrepresentations 
of a few ambitious men, will carry the Cotton States 
ir'.to such violent disloyalty that the North in its in- 
dignation will give them a lesson never to be forgot- 
ten. “ 

“ Well !’’ shouted the major, “ if they ever fire 
on the old flag. I'll shoulder my crutch and march 
against them myself, — I would, by heaven ! though 
my own brother fired the gun." 

Grace's merry laugh rang out — for she never lost a 
chance to throw oil on the troubled waters— and she 
cried, “ Warren, if this thing goes on, you and papa 
will stand shoulder to shoulder.” 

But the time for that had not yet come. Indeed, 
there would ever remain wide differences of opinion 
between the two men. The major believed that if 
Congress conceded promptly all that the slave 
power demanded, “ the demagogues of the South 
would soon be without occupation while Hilland 
asserted that the whole thing originated in bluster 
to frighten the North into submission, and that the 
danger was that the unceasing .inflammatory talk 


172 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


might so kindle the masses that they would believe 
the lies, daily iterated, and pass beyond the control 
of their leaders. 

When at last South Carolina seceded, and it 
became evident that other States would follow, the 
major often said with bitter emphasis that the North 
would have to pay dearly for its sentiment in regard 
to the negro. In Hilland’s case strong exultation 
became a growing element in his anger, for he 
believed that slavery was destined to receive heavier 
blows from the mad zeal of its friends than North- 
ern abolitionists could have inflicted in a cen- 
tury. 

“ If the South casts aside constitutional protec- 
tion/’ he reasoned, “she must take the conse- 
quences. After a certain point is passed, the North 
will make sharp, quick work with anything that in- 
terferes with her peace and prosperity.” 

“ The work will be sharp enough, young man,” 
replied the major testily ; “ but don’t be sure about 
its being quick. If the South once gets to fight- 
ing, I know her people well enough to assure you 
that the Republican party can reach its ends only 
through seas of blood, if they are ever attained.” 

Hilland made no reply, — he never contradicted the 
old gentleman, — but he wrote Graham a rather 
strong letter intimating that it was time for Ameri- 
cans to come home. 

Graham would not have come, however, had not 
Grace, who had just returned from Mrs. Mayburn’s 
cottage, caused a postscript to be added, giving the 
information that hb aunt was seriously ill, and that 


THE CLOUD IN THE SOUTH. 173 

her physician thought it might be a long time before 
she recovered, even if life was spared. 

This decided him at once ; and as he thought he 
might never see his kind old friend again, he bitterly 
regretted that he had remained away so long. And 
yet he felt he could scarcely have done otherwise ; 
for in bitter disappointment he found that his pas- 
sion, so far from being conquered, had, by some un- 
controllable law of his nature, simply grown with time 
and become interwoven with every fibre of his nature. 
Hitherto he had acted on the principle that he must 
and would conquer it ; but now that duty called 
him to the presence of the one whose love and kind- 
ness formed an indisputable claim upon him, he be- 
gan to reason that further absence was futile, that he 
might as well go back, and — as he promised his 
aunt — “ do the best he could.” 

It mast be admitted that Hilland’s broad hint, 
that in the coming emergency Americans should be 
at home, had little weight with him. From natural 
bent he had ever been averse to politics. In ac- 
cordance with his theory of evolution, he believed 
the negro was better off in his present condition 
than he could be in any other. He was the last 
man to cherish an enthusiasm for an inferior race. In- 
deed, he would have much preferred it should die out 
altogether and make room for better material. The 
truth was that his prolonged residence abroad had 
made the questions of American politics exceedingly 
vague and inconsequential. He believed them to 
be ephemeral to the last, degree, — in the main, mere 
struggles of parties and partisans for power and 


174 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS, 


spoils ; and for their hopes, schemes, and stratagems 
to gain temporary success, he cared nothing. 

He had not been an idler in his prolonged 
absence. In the first place, he had striven with the 
whole force of a powerful will to subdue a useless 
passion, and had striven in vain. He had not, how- 
ever, yielded for a day to a dreamy melancholy, but, 
in accordance with his promise “to do his best,*’ 
had been tireless in mental and physical activity. 
The tendency to wander somewhat aimlessly had 
ceased, and he had adopted the plan of studying 
modern life at the old centres of civilization and 
power. 

Hilland's letter found him in Egypt, and only a 
few weeks had elapsed after its reception when, with 
deep anxiety, he rang the bell at his aunt’s cottage 
door. He had not stopped to ask for letters in 
London, for he had learned that by pushing right on 
he could catch a fast out-going steamer and save 
some days. 

The servant who admitted him uttered a cry of 
joy ; and a moment later his aunt rose feebly from 
the lounge in her sitting-room, and greeted him as 
her son. 


CHAPTER XVIL 


PREPARATION. 

G raham learned with deep satisfaction that 
the dangerous symptoms of his aunt’s illness 
had passed away, and that she was now well ad- 
vanced in convalescence. They gave to each other 
an hour or two of unreserved confidence ; and the 
old lady’s eyes filled with tears more than once as 
she saw how vain had been her nephew’s struggle. 
It was equally clear, however, that he had gained 
strength and a nobler manhood in the effort ; and so 
she told him. 

“ If supper is ready,” he replied, “ I’ll prove to 
you that I am in very fair condition.” 

An hour later he left her, cheerful and compara- 
tively happy, for the St. Johns’ cottage. From the 
piazza he saw through the lighted windows a home- 
scene that he had once dreamed might bless his life. 
Hilland, evidently, was reading the evening paper 
aloud, and his back was toward his friend. The 
major was nervously drumming on the table with his 
fingers, and contracting his frosty eyebrows, as if 
perturbed by the news. But it was on the young 
wife that Graham’s eyes dwelt longest. She sat 


176 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


with some sewing on the farther side* of the open 
fire, and her face was toward him. Had she 
changed ? Yes ; but for the better. The slight 
matronly air and fuller form that had come with 
wifehood became her better than even her girlish 
grace. As she glanced up to her husband from 
time to time, Graham saw serene loving trust and 
content. 

“ It is all well with them," he thought ; " and so 
may it ever be. ’ ’ 

A servant who was passing out opened the door, 
and thus he was admitted without being announced, 
for he cautioned the maid to say nothing. Then 
pushing open the parlor door, which was ajar, he en- 
tered, and said quietly, " Tve come over for a game 
of whist." 

But the quietness of his greeting was not recipro- 
cated. All rose hastily, even to the major, and 
stared at him. Then Hilland half crushed the prof- 
fered hand, and the inajor grasped the other, and 
there came a fire of exclamations and questions that 
for a moment or two left no space for answer. 

Grace cried, " Come, Warren, give Mr. Graham a 
chance to get his breath and shake hands with me. 
I propose to count for something in this welcome." 

" Give him a kiss, sweetheart," said her delight- 
ed husband. 

Grace hesitated, and a slight flush suffused her 
face. Graham quickly bent over her hand, which 
he now held, and kissed it, saying, " I’ve been 
among the Orientals so long that Tve learned some 
of their customs of paying homage. I know that 


PREPARA TION. 


177 


you are queen here as of old, and that Hilland is by 
this time the meekest of men/’ 

“ Indeed, was I so imperious in old times?” she 
asked, as he threw himself, quite at home, into one 
of the easy-chairs. 

“You are of those who are born to rule. You 
have a way of your own, however, which some 
other rulers might imitate to advantage.” 

“ Well, my first command is that you give an ac- 
count of yourself. So extensive a traveller never 
sat down at our quiet fireside before. Open your 
budget of wonders. Only remember we have some 
slight acquaintance with Baron Munchausen.” 

“ The real wonders of the world are more wonder- 
ful than his inventions. Beyond that I hastened 
home by the shortest possible route after receiving 
Hilland’s letter, I have little to say.” 

“ I thought my letter would stir you up.” 

“ In sincerity, I must say it did not. The post- 
script did, however.” 

‘ ‘ Then, in a certain sense, it was I who brought 
you home, Mr. Graham,” said Grace. “ I had just 
returned from a call on Mrs. Mayburn, and I made 
Warren open the letter and add the postscript. I 
assure you we were exceedingly anxious about her 
for weeks." 

“ And from what she has told me I am almost con- 
vinced that she owes her life more to you than to her 
physician. Drugs go but a little way, especially at 
her time of life ; but the delicacies and nourishing 
food you saw she was provided with so regularly 
rallied her strength. Yes ; it was your postscript 


178 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


that led to my immediate return, and not Hilland's 
political blast.” 

“ Why, Graham ! Don't you realize what's going 
on here ?” 

“Not very seriously.” 

“You may have to fight, old fellow.” 

“ I’ve no objections after I have decided which 
side to take.” 

“ Good heavens, Graham ! you will be mobbed 
if you talk that way here in New England. This 
comes of a man’s living abroad so much that he 
loses all love for his native land.” 

“ Squabbling politicians are not one’s native land. 
I am not a hater of slavery as you are ; and if it 
produces types of men and women like that Southern 
lady of whom I told you, it must be an excellent in- 
stitution.” 

“ O, yes,” cried Hilland, laughing. “ By the 
way, Grace, my cool, cynical friend was once madly 
in love — love at first sight, too — and with a lady old 
enough to be his mother. I never heard a woman’s 
character sketched more tenderly ; and his climax 
was that your mother must have closely resembled 
her.” 

“Mr. Graham is right,” said the major impres- 
sively. “ The South produces the finest women in 
the world ; and when the North comes to meet its 
men, as I fear it must, it will find they are their 
mothers’ sons.” 

‘ ‘ Poor Warren ! ’ ’ cried Grace ; ' ‘ here are all three 
of us against you, — all pro-slavery and Southern in 
our sympathies.” 


PRRPARA TION. 


179 


I admit at once that the South has produced the 
finest woman in the world,” said Hilland, taking his 
wife’s hand. “But I must add that many of her 
present productions are pot at all to my taste ; nor 
will they be to yours, Graham, after you have been 
here long enough to understand what is going on, — 
that is, if anything at home can enlist your interest.” 

” I assure you I am deeply interested. It’s ex- 
hilarating to breathe American air now, especially 
so after just coming from regions where everything 
has been dead for centuries; for the people living 
there now are scarcely alive. Of course I obtained 
from the papers in Egypt very vague ideas of what 
was going on ; and after receiving your letter my 
mind was too preoccupied with my aunt’s illness to 
dwell on much besides. If the flag which gave me 
protection abroad, and under which I was born, is 
assailed, I shall certainly fight for it, even though I 
may not be in sympathy with the causes which led 
to the quarrel. What I said about being undecided 
as to which side I would take was a half-jocular way 
of admitting that I need a great deal of information ; 
and between you and the major I am in a fair way to 
hear both sides. I cannot believe, however, that a 
civil war will break out in this land of all others. The 
very idea seems preposterous, and I am not beyond 
the belief that the whole thing is political excite- 
ment. I have learned this much, that the old teach- 
ings of Calhoun have borne their legitimate fruit, and 
that the Cotton States by some hocus-pocus legisla- 
tion declare themselves out of the Union. But then 
the rational, and to my mind inevitable course will be, 


i8o 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


that the representative men of both sides will realize 
at last to what straits their partisanship is bringing 
them, and so come together and adjust their real 
or fancied grievances. Meanwhile, the excitement 
will die out ; and a good many will have a dim con- 
sciousness that they have made fools of themselves, 
and go quietly about their own business the rest of 
their days. 

“ Graham, you don’t know anything about the 
true state of affairs,” said Hilland ; and before the 
evening was over he proved his words true to his 
friend, who listened attentively to the history of his 
native land for the past few months. In conclusion, 
Hilland said, ‘‘At one time — not very long ago, 
either — I held your opinion that it was the old game 
of bluster and threatening on the part of Southern 
politicians. But they are going too far ; they have 
already gone too far. In seizing the United States 
forts and other property, they have practically waged 
war against the government. My opinions have 
changed from week to week under the stern logic of 
events, and I now believe that the leading spirits in 
the South mean actual and final separation. I’ve no 
doubt that they hope to effect their purpose peace- 
ably, and that the whole thing will soon be a matter 
of diplomacy between two distinct governments. 
But they are preparing for war, and they will have 
it, too, to their hearts’ content. President Buchan- 
an is a muff. He sits and wrings his hands like an 
old woman, and declares he can do nothing. But 
the new administration will soon be in power, and it 
will voice the demand of the North that this non- 


PREPARA TION. 


i8i 


sense be stopped ; and if no heed is given, it will 
stop it briefly, decisively.” 

“My son Warren,” said the major, “you told 
your friend some time since that he knew nothing 
about this affair. You must permit me to say the 
same to you. I fear that both sides have gone too 
far, much too far ; and what the end will be, and 
when it will come, God only knows.” 

Before many weeks passed Graham shared the 
same view. 

Events crowded upon each other ; pages of his- 
tory were made daily, and often hourly. In every 
home, as well as in the cottages wherein dwelt the 
people of my story, the daily journals were snatched 
and read at the earliest possible moment. Many 
were stern and exultant like Hilland ; more were 
dazed and perplexed, feeling that something ought 
to be done to stem the torrent, and at the same time 
were astonished and troubled to find that perhaps a 
next-door neighbor sympathized with the rebellion 
and predicted its entire success. The social atmos- 
phere was thick with doubt, heavy with despond- 
ency, and often lurid with anger. 

Graham became a curious study to both Grace 
and his aunt ; and sometimes his friend and the 
major were inclined to get out of patience with 
him. He grew reticent on the subject concerning 
which all were talking, but he read with avidity, 
not only the history of the day, but of the past as 
it related to the questions at issue. 

One of his earliest acts had been the purchase of 
a horse noted in town as being so powerful, spirited, 


i 82 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


and even vicious, that few dared to drive or ride 
him. He had finally brought his ill-repute to a cli- 
max by running away, wrecking the carriage, and 
breaking his owner’s ribs. He had since stood 
fuming in idleness ; and when Graham wished him 
brought to the unused stable behind his aunt’s cot- 
tage, no one would risk the danger. Then the 
young man went after the horse himself. 

“ I’ve only one man in my employ who dares clean 
and take care of him,” remarked the proprietor of 
the livery-stable where he was kept ; “ and he de- 
clares that he won’t risk his life much longer unless 
the brute is used and tamed down somewhat. 
There’s your property and I’d like to have it re- 
moved as soon as possible.” 

” I’ll remove it at once,” said Graham, quietly ; 
and paying no heed to the crowd that began to 
gather when it was bruited that ” Firebrand ” — for 
such was the horse’s name — was to be brought out, 
he took a bridle and went into the stall, first speak- 
ing gently, then stroking the animal with an assured 
touch. The horse permitted himself to be bridled 
and led out ; but there was an evil fire in his eye, 
and he gave more than one ominous snort of defi- 
ance. The proprietor, smitten by a sudden com- 
punction, rushed forward and cried, ” Look here, 
sir ; you are taking your life in your hand.” 

” I say, Graham,” cried Hilland’s voice, ” what 
scrape are you* in, that you have drawn such a 
crowd ?” 

” No scrape at all,” said Graham, looking around 
and recognizing his friend and Grace mounted and 


PREPARA TION. 


183 


passing homeward from their ride. “ Tve had the 
presumption to think that you would permit me to 
join you occasionally, and so have bought a good 
horse. Isn't he a beauty.^" 

What, Firebrand T' 

** That's his present name. I shall re-christen 
him." 

" O, come, Graham ! if you don't value your neck, 
others do. You've been imposed upon." 

" I've warned him — " began the keeper of the 
livery-stable ; but here the horse reared and tried to 
break from Graham's grasp. 

" Clear the way," the young man cried ; and as 
the brute came down he seized his mane and vaulted 
upon his bare back. The action was so sudden and 
evidently so unexpected that the horse stood still and 
quivered for a moment, then gave a few prodigious 
bounds ; but the rider kept his seat so perfectly that 
he seemed a part of the horse. The beast next be- 
gan to rear, and at one time it seemed as if he would 
fall over backward, and his master sprang lightly to 
the ground. But the horse was scarcely on all fours 
before Graham was on his back again. The brute 
had the bit in his teeth, and paid no attention to it. 
Graham now drew a flexible rawhide from his 
pocket, and gave his steed a severe cut across the 
flanks. The result was another bound into the air, 
such as experts present declared was never seen 
before ; and then the enraged animal sped away at 
a tremendous pace. There was a shout of ap- 
plause ; and Hilland and Grace galloped after, but 
soon lost sight of Graham. Two hours later he 


184 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


trotted quietly up to their door, his coal-black horse 
white with foam, quivering in every muscle, but 
perfectly subdued. 

“ I merely wished to assure you that my neck was 
safe, and that I have a horse fit to go to the war that 
you predict so confidently, " he said to Hilland, who 
with Grace rushed out on the piazza. 

“ I say, Graham, where did you learn to ride?’' 
asked his friend. 

O, the horses were nobler animals than the men 
in some of the lands where I have been, and I stud- 
ied them. This creature will be a faithful friend in 
a short time. You have no idea how much intelli- 
gence such a horse as this has if he is treated intelli- 
gently. I don’t believe he has ever known genuine 
kindness. I’ll guarantee that I can fire a pistol 
between his ears within two weeks, and that he won’t 
flinch. Good-by. I shall be my own hostler for a 
short time, and must work an hour ovfcr him after 
the run he’s had.” 

” Well,” exclaimed Hilland, as he passed into the 
house with his wife, I admit that Graham has 
changed. He was always great on tramps, bjit I 
never knew him to care for a horse before.” 

Grace felt that he had changed ever since he had 
leaned for support against the apple-tree by which 
he was now passing down the frozen walk, but she 
only said, ” I never saw such superb horseman- 
ship.” 

She had not thought Graham exactly fine-looking 
in former days ; but in his absence his slight figure 
had filled out, and his every movement was instinct 


PJ^EPARA TION. 


185 

with reserved force. The experiences through 
which he had passed removed him, as she was con- 
scious, beyond the sphere of ordinary men. Even 
his marked reticence about himself and his views 
was stimulating to the imagination. Whether he had 
conquered his old regard for her she could not tell. 
He certainly no longer avoided her, and he treat- 
ed her with the frank courtesy he would naturally 
extend to his friend’s wife. But he spent far more 
time with his aunt than with them ; and it became 
daily more and more evident that he accepted the 
major’s view, and was preparing for what he 
believed would be a long and doubtful conflict. 
Since it must come, he welcomed the inevitable, for 
in his condition of mind it was essential that he 
should be intensely occupied. Although his aunt 
had to admit that he was a little peculiar, his man- 
ner was simple and quiet ; and when he joined his 
friends on their drives or at their fireside, he was usu- 
ally as genial as they could desire, and his tender- 
ness for his aunt daily increased the respect which 
he had already won from Grace. 


CHAPTER XVIIL 


THE CALL TO ARMS. 

N the 4th of March, i86i, was inaugurated 



as President the best friend the South ever 
had. He would never have deceived or misled her. 
In all the bloody struggle that followed, although 
hated, scoffed at, and maligned as the vilest monster 
of earth, he never by word or act manifested a vin- 
dictive spirit toward her. Firm and sagacious, Lin- 
coln would have protected the South in her consti- 
tutional rights, though every man at the North had 
become an abolitionist. Slavery, however, had long 
been doomed, like other relics of barbarism, by the 
spirit of the age ; and his wisdom and that of men 
like him, with the logic of events and the irresistible 
force of the world’s opinion, would have found 
some peaceful, gradual remedy for an evil which 
wrought even more injury to the master than to the 
bondman. In his inaugural address he repeated that 
he had “ no purpose, directly or indirectly, to inter- 
fere with slavery in the States where it existed.” 

An unanswerable argument against disunion, and 
an earnest appeal to reason and lawful remedy, he 
followed by a most impressive declaration of peace 


THE CALL TO ARMS. 187 

and good-will : “ In your hands, my dissatisfied fel- 
low-countrymen, and not mine, is the momentous is- 
sue of civil war. The government will not assail you. 
You can have no conflict without being yourselves 
the aggressors. You have no oath registered in 
heaven to destroy the government ; while I shall 
have the most solemn one to preserve, protect, and 
defend it." 

These were noble words, and to all minds not 
confused by the turmoil, passion, and prejudices of 
the hour, they presented the issue squarely. If the 
leaders of the South desired peaceful negotiation, 
the way was opened, the opportunity offered ; if 
they were resolved on the destruction of the Union, 
Lincoln’s oath meant countless men and countless 
treasure to defend it. 

Men almost held their breath in suspense. The 
air became thick with rumors of compromise and 
peace. Even late in March, Mr. Seward, the Presi- 
dent’s chief adviser, " believed and argued that the 
revolution throughout the South had spent its force 
and was on the wane ; and that the evacuation of 
Sumter and the manifestation of kindness and con- 
fidence to the Rebel and Border States would under- 
mine the conspiracy, strengthen the Union senti- 
ment and Union majorities, and restore allegiance 
and healthy political action without resort to civil 
war. 

To Graham, who, in common with millions in 
their homes, was studying the problem, this course 
seemed so rational and so advantageous to all con- 
cerned, that he accepted it as the outline of the 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


1 88 

future. The old major shook his head and growled, 
“You don’t know the South; it’s too late; their 
blood is up." 

Hilland added exultantly, “ Neither do you know 
the North, Graham. There will come a tidal wave 
soon that will carry Mr. Seward and the hesitating 
President to the boundaries of Mexico.” 

The President was not hesitating, in the weak 
sense of the word. Equally removed from Mr. 
Buchanan’s timidity and Mr. Seward’s optimistic 
confidence, he was feeling his way, gathering the 
reins into his hands, and seeking to comprehend an 
issue then too obscure and vast for mortal mind 
to grasp. What is plain to-day was not plain 
then. 

It speedily became evident, however, that all 
talk of compromise on the part of the Southern 
leaders was deceptive, — that they were relentlessly 
pursuing the course marked out from the first, hop- 
ing, undoubtedly, that the government would be 
panalyzed by their allies at the North, and that their 
purposes would be effected by negotiation and for- 
eign intervention. 

And so the skies grew darker and the political 
and social atmosphere so thick with doubt and dis- 
cordant counsels that the horizon narrowed about 
even those on the mountain-top of power. All 
breathed heavily and felt the oppression that pre- 
cedes some convulsion of nature. 

At length, on the morning of the I2th of April, 
as the darkness which foreruns the dawn was lifting 
from Charleston Harbor, and Sumter lay like a shad- 


THE CALL TO ARMS, 


189 


ow on the waves, a gun was fired whose echoes re- 
peated themselves around the world. They were 
heard in every home North and South, and their 
meaning was unmistakable. The flash of that mor- 
tar gun and of the others that followed was as the 
lightning burning its way across the vault of heaven, 
revealing everything with intense vividness, and 
rending and consuming all noxious vapors. The 
clouds rolled speedily away, and from the North 
came the sound of “ a rushing, mighty wind." 

The crisis and the leader came together. The 
news reached Washington on Saturday. On Sun- 
day Mr. Lincoln drafted his memorable call to 
arms, and on Monday it was telegraphed through- 
out the land. The response to that call forms one 
of the sublimest chapters of history. 

In the St. John cottage, as in nearly all other 
homes, differences of opinion on minor questions 
melted into nothingness. 

Graham read the electric words aloud, and his 
friend's only excited comment was, 

" Graham, you will go." 

"Not yet," was the quiet response ; " and I sin- 
cerely hope you will not." 

" How can a man do otherwise?" 

" Because he is a man, and not an infuriated ani- 
mal. Tve been very, chary in giving my opinion on 
this subject, as you know. You also know that I 
have read and thought about it almost constantly 
since my return. I share fully in Major St. John’s 
views that this affair is not to be settled by a mad rush 
southward of undisciplined Northern men. I have 


ms SOMBRE RIVALS. 


190 

traced the history of Southern regiments and officers 
in the Revolution and in our later wars, and I assure 
you that we are on the eve of a gigantic conflict. 
In that degree that we believe the government 
right, we, as rational men, should seek to render it 
effective service. The government does not need a 
mob : it needs soldiers, and such are neither you 
nor I. I have informed myself somewhat on the 
militia system of the country, and there are plenty 
of organized regiments of somewhat disciplined men 
who can go at an hour's notice. If you went now, 
you — a millionnaire — would not count for as much as 
an Irishman who had spent a few months in a drill- 
room. The time may come when you can equip a 
regiment if you choose. Moreover, you have a con- 
trolling voice in large business interests ; and this 
struggle is doomed from the start if not sustained 
financially.” 

” Mr. Graham is right,” said Grace, emphatically. 
” Even my woman's reason makes so much clear to 
me.” 

“Your woman's reason would serve most men 
better than their own,” was his smiling reply. 
Then, as he looked into her lovely face, pale at the 
bare thought that her husband was going into danger, 
he placed his hand on Hilland's shoulder and contin- 
ued, ” Warren, there are other Sacred claims besides 
those of patriotism. The cause should grow des- 
perate indeed before you leave that wife.” 

” Mr. Graham,” Grace began, with an indignant 
flush mantling the face that had been so pale, “ I 
am a soldier’s daughter ; and if Warren believed it 


THE CALL TO ARMS. 


19T 

to be his duty — Then she faltered, and burst 
into a passion of tears, as she moaned, “ O God! 
it's — it's true. The bullet that struck him would 
inflict a deadlier wound on me and she hid her 
face on Hilland's breast and sobbed piteously. 

“ Lt is also true," said Graham, in tones that 
were as grave and solemn as they were gentle, 
‘‘ that your father’s spirit — nay, your own — would 
control you. Under its influence you might not 
only permit but urge your husband's departure, 
though your heart broke a thousand times. There- 
fore, Hilland, I appeal to your manhood. You 
would be unworthy of yourself and of this true 
woman were you guided by passion or excitement. 
As a loyal man you are bound to render your 
country your best service. To rush to the fray now 
would be the poorest aid you could give." 

" Graham talks sense," said the major, speaking 
with the authority of a veteran. " If I had to meet 
the enemy at once, Td rather have a regiment of 
canaille^ and cowards at that, who could obey orders 
like a machine, than one of hot-headed millionnaires 
who might not understand the command ‘ Halt !' 
Mr. Graham is right again when he says that Grace 
will not prevent a man from doing his duty any 
more than her mother did." 

" What do you propose to do?” asked Hilland, 
breathing heavily. It was evident that a tremendous 
struggle was going on in his breast, for it had been 
his daily and nightly dream to join the grand onset 
that should sweep slavery and rebellion out of exist- 


ence. 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


192 

Simply what I advise, — watch, wait, and act 
when I can be of the most service/' 

“ I yield," said Hilland, slowly, for I suppose 
you are right. You all know well, and you best of 
all, sweetheart," — taking his wife’s face in his hands 
and looking down into her tearful eyes, — “ that here 
is the treasure of my life. But you also know that 
in all the past there have come times when a man 
must give up everything at the need of his country." 

“ And when that time comes," sobbed his wife, 
“I — I — will not — ’’ But she could not finish the 
sentence. 

Graham stole away, awed, and yet with a peace 
in his heart that he had not known for years. He 
had saved his friend from the first wild m^l^e of the 
war, — the war that promised rest and nothingness to 
him, even while he kept his promise to“ live and do 
his best."* 


CHAPTER XIX. 


THE BLOOD-RED SKY. 

D ays and weeks of intense excitement followed 
the. terrific Union reverses which at one time 
threatened the loss of the national capital ; and the 
North began to put forth the power of which it was 
only half-conscious, like a giant taken unawares ; for 
to all, except men of Hilland’s hopeful confidence, it 
soon became evident that the opponent was a giant 
also. It is not my purpose to dwell upon. this, 
however, except as it influenced the actors of my 
story. 

Hilland, having given up his plans, was content- 
edly carrying out the line of action suggested by 
his friend. By all the means within his power he 
was furthering the Union cause, and learned from 
experience how much more he could accomplish as 
a business man than by shouldering a musket, or 
misleading a regiment in his ignorance. He made 
frequent trips to New York, and occasionally went 
to Washington. Graham often accompanied him, 
and also came and went on affairs of his own. Os- 
tensibly he was acting as correspondent for the 
journal to which he had written when abroad. In 


194 


ms SOMBRE RIVALS 


reality, he was studying the great drama with an 
interest that was not wholly patriotic or scientific. 
He had found an antidote. The war, dreaded so 
unspeakably by many, was a boon to him ; and the 
fierce excitement of the hour a counter-irritant to 
the pain at heart which he believed had become his 
life-long heritage. 

He had feared the sorrowful reproaches of his 
aunt, as he gave himself almost wholly up to its in- 
fluences, and became an actor in the great struggle. 
In this he was agreeably mistaken, for the spirited 
old lady, while averse to politics as such, had be- 
come scarcely less belligerent than the major since 
the fall of Sumter. She cheerfully let him come 
and go at his will ; and in his loving gratitude it 
must be admitted that his letters to her were more 
frequent and interesting than those to the journal 
whose badge was his passport to all parts of our 
lines. ^ He spent every hour he could with her, also ; 
and she saw with pleasure that his activity did him 
good. Grace thought he found few opportunities 
to pass an evening with them. She was exceed- 
ingly grateful, — first, that he had interpreted her so 
nobly, but chiefly because it was his influence and 
reasoning that had led her husband into his present 
large, useful, happy action ; and she could not help 
showing it. 

Graham's position of correspondent gave him far 
better opportunities for observation than he could have 
had in any arm of the service. Of late he was following 
the command of General Patterson, believing from his 
sanguinary vaporingthat in his army would be seen the 


TBE BLOOD-RED SKY, 


^ 95 . 

first real work of the war.* He soon became con- 
vinced, however, that the veteran of the Mexican 
war, like the renowned King of France, would march 
his “ twenty thousand men” up the hill only to 
march them down again. Hearing that McDowell 
proposed to move against the enemy at Manassas, 
he hastily repaired to Washington, hoping to find a 
general that dared to come within cannon-range of 
the foe. 

A sultry day late in the month of July was draw- 
ing to a close. Hilland and his wife, with Mrs. May- 
burn, were seated under the apple-tree, at which 
point the walk intersected with the main one lead- 
ing to the street. The young man, with a heavy 
frown, was reading from an ” extra” a lurid outline of 
General McDowell’s overwhelming defeat and the 
mad panic that ensued. Grace was listening with 
deep solicitude, her work lying idle in her lap. It 
had been a long, hard day for her. Of late her father 
had been deeply excited, and now was sleeping from 
sheer reaction. Mrs. Mayburn, looking as grim as 
fate, sat bolt upright and knitted furiously. One 
felt instinctively that in no emergency of life could 
she give way to a panic. 

Well,” cried Hilland, springing to his feet and 
dashing the paper to the ground with something like 
an oath, “ one battle has been fought in America 
at which I thank the immortal gods I was not pres- 
ent. Why did not McDowell drive a flock of sheep 

* Patterson wrote to the Secretary of War; “You have the 
means ; place them at my disposal, and shoot me if I do not use 
them to advantage.” 


ms SOMBRE rivals. 


196 

against the enemy, and furnish his division com- 
manders with shepherds’ crooks ? O, the burning, 
indelible disgrace of it all ! And yet — and the pos- 
sibility of it makes me feel that I would destroy my- 
self had it happened — I might have run like the 
blackest sheep of them all. I once read up a little 
on the subject of panics ; and there’s a mysterious, 
awful contagion about them impossible to compre- 
hend. These men were Americans ; they had been 
fighting bravely ; what the devil got into them that 
they had to destroy themselves and everything in an 
insane rush for life ?” 

“ O Warren, see the sky !” cried his wife, the 
deep solicitude of her expression giving place to a 
look of awe. 

They all turned to the west, and saw a sunset 
that from the excitable condition of their minds 
seemed to reflect the scenes recently enacted, and to 
portend those in prospect now for years to come. 
Lines of light and broken columns of cloud had 
ranged themselves across the western arch of the 
sky, and almost from the horizon to the zenith they 
were blood-red. So deep, uniform, and ensanguined 
was the crimson, that the sense of beauty was sub- 
ordinated to the thought of the national tragedy re- 
flected in the heavens. Hiliand’s face grew stern as 
he looked, and Grace hid hers on his breast. 

After a moment, he said lightly, “ What super- 
stitious fools we are ! It’s all an accidental effect of 
light and cloud.” 

A cry from Mrs. Mayburn caused them to turn 
hastily, and they saw her rushing down the path to 


THE BLOOD-RED SKY. 


197 


the street entrance. Two men were helping some 
one from a carriage. As their obscuring forms stood 
aside, Graham was seen balancing himself on 
crutches. 

Hilland placed his wife hastily but tenderly on the 
seat, and was at the gateway in almost a single 
bound. 

“You had better let us carry you," Grace heard 
one of the men say in gruff kindness. 

“ Nonsense ! " was the hearty reply. “ I have not 
retreated thus far so masterfully only to give my 
aunt the hysterics at last." 

. “ Alford," said his aunt, sternly, “ if it’s wise for 
you to be carried, be carried. Any man here is as 
liable to hysterics as 1 am." 

“ Graham, what does this mean ?" cried his friend, 
in deep excitement. “You look as if half cut to 
pieces." 

“ It's chiefly my clothes ; I am a fitter subject for 
a tailor than for a surgeon. Come, good people, there 
is no occasion for melodrama. With aunty’s care I 
shall soon be as sound as ever. Very well, carry 
me, then; Perhaps I ought not to use my arm yet ;" 
for Hilland, taking in his friend’s disabled condition 
more fully, was about to lift him in his arms with- 
out permission or apology. It ended in his making 
what is termed a “ chair" with one of the men, and 
Graham was borne speedily up the path. 

Grace stood at the intersection with hands clasped 
in the deepest anxiety ; but Graham smiled reassur- 
ingly, as he said, “ Isn’t this an heroic style of re- 
turning from the wars? Not quite like Walter 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS, 


198 

Scott’s knights ; but we’ve fallen on prosaic times. 
Don’t look so worried. I assure you I’m not seri- 
ously hurt.” 

” Mrs. Mayburn,” said Hilland, excitedly, ” let us 
take him to our cottage. We can all take better 
care of him there. ” 

” Oh, do ! please do !” echoed Grace. “You are 
alone ; and Warren and I could do so much — ” 

“ No,” said the old lady quietly and decisively ; 
for the moment the proposition was broached 
Graham’s eyes had sought hers in imperative warn- 
ing. “You both can help me as far as it is need- 
ful.” 

Grace detected the glance and noted the result, but 
Hilland began impetuously, “ O, come, dear Mrs. 
Mayburn, I insist upon it. Graham is making light 
of it ; but I’m sure he’ll need more care than you 
realize — ’ ’ 

“ Hilland, I know the friendship that prompts 
your wish,” interrupted Graham, “but my aunt is 
right. I shall do better in my own room. I need 
rest more than anything else. You and your wife 
can do all you wish for me. Indeed, I shall visit 
you to-morrow and fight the battle over again with 
the major. Please take me to my room at once,” 
he added in a low tone. “ I’m awfully tired.” 

“ Come, Mr. Hilland,” said Mrs. Mayburn, in a 
tone almost authoritative ; and she led the way de- 
cisively. 

. Hilland yielded, and in a few moments Graham 
was in his own room, and after taking a little stimu- 
lant, explained. 


THE BLOOD-RED SKY, 


199 


“ My horse was shot and fell on me. I am more 
bruised, scratched, and used up, than hurt and 
so it proved, though his escape had evidently been 
almost miraculous. One leg and foot had been 
badly crushed. There were two flesh wounds in his 
arm ; and several bullets had cut his clothing, in some 
places drawing blood. All over his clothes, from 
head to foot, were traces of Virginia soil ; and he 
had the general appearance of a man who had passed 
through a desperate miUe, 

“ I tried to repair damages in Washington,'* he 
said, “ but the confusion was so dire I had to choose 
between a hospital and home ; and as I had some 
* symptoms of fever last night, I determined to push 
on till under the wing of my good old aunty and 
your fraternal care. Indeed, I think I was half 
delirious when I took the train last evening ; but it 
was only from fatigue, lack of sleep, and perhaps 
loss of blood. Now, please leave me to aunty’s care 
to-night, and I will tell you all about it to-mor- 
row. ” 

Hilland was accordingly constrained to yield to 
his friend’s wishes. He brought the best surgeon 
in town, however, and gave directions that, after he 
had dressed Graham’s wounds, he should spend the 
night in Mrs. Mayburn’s parlor, and report to him if 
there was any change for the worse. Fortunately, 
there was no occasion for his solicitude. Graham 
slept with scarcely a break till late the next morning ; 
and his pulse became so quiet that when he waked 
with a good appetite the physician pronounced Ml 
danger passed. 


200 


{IIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


In the evening he was bent on visiting the major. 
He knew they were all eager for his story, and, cal- 
culating upon the veteran’s influence in restraining 
Hilland from hasty action, he resolved that his 
old and invalid friend should hear it with the first. 
From the character of Hilland he knew the danger 
to be apprehended was that he would throw himself 
into the struggle in some way that would paralyze, 
or at the least curtail, his efficiency. Both his 
aunt and the physician, who underrated the recu- 
perative power of Graham’s fine physical condition, 
urged quiet until the following day ; but he assured 
them he would suffer more from restlessness than 
from a moderate degree of effort. He also ex- 
plained to his aunt that he wished to talk with Hil- 
land, and, if possible, in the presence of his wife and 
the major. 

“ Then they must come here,” said the old lady, 
resolutely. 

With this compromise he had to be content ; 
and Hilland, who had been coming and going, 
readily agreed to fetch the major. 


CHAPTER XX. 


TWO BATTLES. 

I N less than an hour Graham was in the parlor, look- 
ing, it is-true, somewhat battered, but cheerful 
anj resolute. His friends found him installed in a 
great arm-chair, with his bruised foot on a cushion, 
his arm in a sling, and a few pieces of court-plaster 
distributed rather promiscuously over his face and 
head. He greeted Hilland and his wife so heartily, 
and assured the major so genially that he should 
now divide with him his honors as a veteran, that 
they were reassured, and the rather tragic mood 
in which they had started on the visit was dispelled. 

“ I must admit, though,” he added to his -old 
friend, who was also made comfortable in his chair, 
which Hilland* had brought over, ” that in my fall 
on the field of glory I made a sorry figure. I was 
held down by my horse and trampled on as if I had 
been a part of the ‘ sacred soil.' ” 

Field of -glory,' indeed!'' exclaimed Hilland, 
contemptuously. 

” I did not know that you had become a soldier,” 
said Grace, with surprise. 

” I was about as much of a soldier as the major- 


202 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


ity, from the generals down,” was the laughing re- 
ply. 

‘‘ I don’t see how you could have been a worse 
one, if you had tried,” was his friend’s rejoinder. 
” I may do no better ; but I should be less than 
man if I did not make an effort to wipe out the dis- 
grace as soon as possible. No reflection on you, 
Graham. Your wounds exonerate you ; and I know 
you did not get them in running away.” 

” Yes, I did, — two of them, at least, — these in my 
arm. As to ‘ wiping out this disgrace as soon as 
possible,’ I think that is a very secondary mat- 
ter.” 

” Well ! I don’t understand it at all,” was Hil- 
land’s almost savage answer. ” But I can tell 
you from the start you need not enter on your old 
prudent counsels that I should serve the govern- 
ment as a stay-at-home quartermaster and general 
supply agent. In my opinion, what the govern- 
ment needs is men, — men who at least won’t run 
away. I now have Grace’s permission to go, — dear, 
brave girl ! — and go 1 shall. To stay at home be- 
cause I am rich seems, to me the very snobbishness of 
wealth ; and the kind of work I have been doing 
graybeards can do just as well, and better.” 

Graham turned a grave look of inquiry upon the 
wife. She answered it by saying with a pallid face, 
” I had better perish a thousand times than destroy 
Warren’s self-respect.” 

“What right have you to preach caution,” con- 
tinued Hilland, “ when you went far enough to be 
struck by half a dozen bullets ?” 


TWO BATTLES. 


203 


“ The right of a retreat which scarcely slackened 
until I was under my aunt’s roof.” 

“ Come, Graham, you are tantalizing us,” said 
Hilland, impatiently. ” There, forgive me, old 
fellow. I fear you are still a little out of your 
head,” he added, with a slight return of his old 
good humor. ” Do give us, then, if you can, some 
account of your impetuous advance on Washington, 
instead of Richmond.” 

” Yes, Mr. Graham,” added the major, “if you 
are able to give me some reason for not blushing 
that I am a Northern man, I shall be glad to hear 
it.” 

“ Mrs. Hilland,” said Graham, with a smiling 
glance at the young wife’s troubled face, “you 
have the advantage of us all. You can proudly say, 

‘ I’m a Southerner.’ Hilland and I are nothing but 
‘low-down Yankees.’ Come, good friends, I have 
seen enough tragedy of late ; and if I have to de- 
scribe a little to-night, let us look at matters philo- 
sophically. If I received some hard knocks from 
your. kin, Mrs. Hilland — ” 

“ Don’t say ‘ Mrs. Hilland,’ ” interrupted his 
friend. “ As I’ve told you before, my wife is 
‘ Grace ’ to you.” 

“ So be it then. The hard knocks from your kin 
have materially added to my small stock of sense ; 
and I think the entire North will be wiser as well as 
sadder before many days pass. We have been 
taught that taking Richmond and marching through 
the South will be no holiday picnic. Major St. 
John has been right from the start. We must en- 


204 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


counter brave, determined men ; and, whatever may 
be true of the leaders, the people are as sincere 
in their patriotism as we are. They don’t even 
dream that they are fighting in a bad cause. The 
majority will stand up for it as stoutly and con- 
scientiously as your husband for ours. Have I not 
done justice to your kin, Grace ?” 

''Yes,” she replied, with a faint smile. 

“ Then forgive me if I say that until four o’clock 
last Sunday afternoon, and in a fair, stand-up fight 
between a Northern mob and a Southern mob, we 
whipped them.” 

” But I thought the men of the North prided 
themselves on their ‘ staying power.’ ” 

” They had no ‘ staying power ’ when they found 
fresh regiments and batteries pouring in on their 
flank and rear. I believe that retreat was then the 
proper thing. The wild panic that ensued re- 
sulted naturally from the condition of the men 
and officers, and especially from the presence 
of a lot of nondescript people that came to see the 
thing as a spectacle, a sort of gladiatorial combat, 
upon which they could look at a safe distance. Two 
most excellent results have been attained : I don’t 
believe we shall ever send out another mob of sol- 
diers ; and I am sure that a mob of men and women 
from Washington will never follow it to see the 
fun.” 

” I wish Beauregard had corailed them all, — the 
mob of sight-seers, I mean,” growled the major. ” I 
must say, Mr. Graham, that the hard knocks you 
and others have received may result in infinite good. 


TIVO BATTLES. 


205 


I think I take your meaning, and that we shall agree 
very nearly before you are through. You know that 
I was ever bitterly opposed to the mad ‘ On to 
Richmond ’ cry ; and now the cursed insanity of 
the thing is clearly proved. '' 

“ I agree with you that it was all wrong, — that it in- 
volved risks that never should have been taken at 
this stage of the war ; and I am told that General 
Scott and other veteran officers disapproved of the 
measure. Nevertheless, it came wonderfully near 
being successful. We should have gained the battle 
if the attack had been made earlier, or if that old 
muff, Patterson, had done his duty.*’ 

“If you are not too tired, give us the whole 
movement, just as you saw it,” said Hilland, his 
eyes glowing with excitement. 

“ O, I feel well enough for another retreat to- 
night. My trouble was chiefly fatigue and lack of 
sleep. ’ ’ 

“ Because you make light of wounds, we do not,” 
said Grace. 

“ Hilland knows that the loss of a little blood as 
pale and watery as mine would be of small account,’* 
was Graham’s laughing response. 

“ Well, to begin at the beginning, I followed 
Patterson till convinced that his chief inpulse was 
to get away from the enemy. I then hastened to 
Washington only to learn that McDowell had already 
had a heavy skirmish which was not particularly to 
our advantage. This was Saturday morning, and 
the impression was that a general engagement would 
be fought almost immediately. The fact that our 


206 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


army had met with little opposition thus far created 
a false confidence. I did not care to risk my pet 
horse, Mayburn. You must know, aunty, I’ve re- 
christened Firebrand in your honor,” said Graham. 
“ I tried to get another mount, but could not ob- 
tain one for love or money. Every beast and con- 
veyance in the city seemed already engaged for the 
coming spectacle. The majority of these civilians 
did not leave till early on Sunday morning, but I had 
plenty of company on Saturday, when with my good 
horse I went in a rather leisurely way to Centerville ; 
for as a correspondent I had fairly accurate informa- 
tion of what was taking place, and had heard that 
there would be no battle that day. 

” I reached Centerville in the evening, and soon 
learned that the forward movement would take 
place in the night. Having put my horse in thor- 
ough condition for the morrow, and made an enor- 
mous supper through the hospitality of some staff- 
officers, I sought a quiet knoll on which to sleep 
in soldier fashion under the sky, but found the scene 
too novel and beautiful for such prosaic oblivion. I 
was on the highest ground I could find, and beneath 
and on either side of me were the camp-fires of an 
army. Around the nearest of these could be seen 
the forms of the soldiers in every picturesque at- 
titude ; some still cooking and making their rude 
suppers, others executing double-shuffles like war- 
dances, more discussing earnestly and excitedly the 
prospects of the coming day, and not a few looking 
pensively into the flames as if they saw pictures of 
the homes and friends they might never see again. 


TfVO BATTLES. 


20J 

In the main, however, animation and jollity pre- 
vailed ; and from far and near came the sound of 
song, and laughter, and chaffing. Far down the 
long slope toward the dark, wooded valley of Bull 
Run, the light of the fires shaded off into such ob- 
scurity as the full moon permitted, while beyond 
the stream in the far distance a long, irregular line 
of luminous haze marked the encampments of the 
enemy. 

“ As the night advanced the army grew quiet ; near 
and distant sounds died away ; the canvas tents were 
like mounds of snow ; and by the flickering, dying 
flames were multitudes of quiet forms. At mid- 
night few scenes could be more calm and beautiful, 
so tenderly did the light of the moon soften and 
etherealize everything. Even the parked artillery 
lost much of its grim aspect, and all nature seemed 
to breathe peace and rest. 

“ It was rumored that McDowell wished to make 
part of the march in the evening, and it would have 
been well if he had done so. A little past midnight a 
general stir and bustle ran through the sleeping army. 
Figures were seen moving hurriedly, men forming 
into lines, and there was a general commotion. But 
there was no promptness of action. The soldiers 
stood around, sat down, and at last lay on their 
arms and slept again. Mounting my horse, with 
saddle-bags well stuffed with such rations as I could 
obtain, I sought the centres of information. It ap- 
peared that the division under General Tyler was 
slow in starting, and blocked the march of the 
Second and the Third Division.' As I picked my way 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


*o8 

around, only a horse’s sagacity kept me from crush- 
ing some sleeping fellow’s leg or arm, for a horse 
won’t step on a man unless excited. 

“ Well; Tyler’s men got out of the way at last in 
a hap-hazard fashion, and the Second and Third Di- 
visions were also steadily moving, but hours behind 
time. Such marching ! It reminded one of country- 
men streaming along a road to a Fourth of July 
celebration. 

“ My main policy was to keep near the commander- 
in-chief, for thus I hoped to obtain from the staff 
some idea of the plan of battle and where its brunt 
would fall. I confess that I was disgusted at first, 
for the general was said to be ill, and he followed his 
columns in a carriage. It seemed an odd way’ of 
leading an army. But he came out all right ; and 
he did his duty as a soldier and a general, although 
every one is cursing him to-day. He was the first 
man on the real battle-field, and by no means the 
first to leave it. 

Of course I came and went along the line of march, 
or of straggling rather, as I pleased ; but I kept 
my eye on the general and his staff. I soon ob- 
served that he decided to make his headquarters 
at the point where a road leading from the great 
Warrenton Turnpike passed to the north through 
what is known as the ‘ Big Woods.’ Tyler’s com- 
mand continued westward down the turnpike to 
what is known as the Stone Bridge, a single sub- 
stantial arch at which the enemy were said to be in 
force. It now became clear that the first fighting 
would be there, and that it was McDowell’s plan to 


TIVO BATTLES. 


209 


send his main force under Hunter and Heintzelman 
farther north through the woods to cross at some 
point above. I therefore followed Tyler’s column, 
as that must soon become engaged. 

" The movements had all been so mortally slow that 
any chance for surprise was lost. As we approached 
the bridge it was as lovely a summer morning as 
you would wish to see. I had ridden ahead with 
the scouts. Thrushes, robins, and other birds were 
singing in the trees. Startled rabbits, and a mother- 
bird with a brood of quails, scurried across the road, 
and all seemed as still ,ai^d peaceful as any Sunday 
that had ever dawned on the scene. It was hard to 
persuade one’s self that in front and rear were the 
forces of deadly war. 

We soon reached an eminence from which we 
saw what dispelled at once the illusion of sylvan 
solitude. The sun had been shining an hour or 
two, and the bridge before us and the road beyond 
were defended by abatis and other obstructions. 
On the farther bank a line of infantry was in full view 
with batteries in position prepared to receive us. I 
confess it sent a thrill through every nerve when I 
first saw the ranks of the foe we must encounter in 
no mere pageant of war. 

“ In a few moments our forces came up, and at 
first one brigade deployed on the left and another 
on the right of the pike. At last I witnessed a scene 
that had the aspect of war. A great thirty-pound 
Parrott gun unlimbered in the centre of the pike, 
and looked like a surly mastiff. In a moment an 
officer, who understood his business, sighted it. 


210 


kis SOMBRE RIVALS. 


There was a flash, bright even in thejuly sunlight, a 
grand report awakening the first echoes of a battle 
whose thunder was heard even in Washington ; and 
a second later we saw the shell explore directly over 
the line of Confederate infantry. Their ranks 
broke and melted away as if by magic.” 

” Good shot, well aimed. O heavens ! what 
would I not give to be thirty years younger. Go 
on, Graham, go on for the young man had 
stopped to take a sip of wine. 

“Yes, Graham,” cried Hilland, springing to his 
feet ; ‘‘ what next ?” 

I fear we are doing Mr. Graham much wrong,” 
Grace interrupted. “He must be going far beyond 
his strength.” 

The young man had addressed his words almost 
solely to the major, not only out of courtesy, but 
also for a reason that Grace partially surmised. He 
now turned and smiled into her flushed, troubled 
face, and said, “ I fear you find these details of war 
dull and wearisome.” 

“ On the contrary^ you are so vivid a raconteur 
I fear Warren will start for the front before you are 
through.” 

“ When I am through you will think differently.” 

“ But you are going beyond your strength.” 

“ I assure you I am not ; though I thank you for 
your thoughtfulness. I never felt better in my life ; 
and it gives me a kind of pleasure to make you all 
realize things as Tsaw them.” 

“ And it gives us great pleasure to listen,” cried 
Hilland. “ Even Mrs. Mayburn there is knitting as 


TIVO BATTLES. 


211 


if her needles were bayonets ; and Grace has the 
flush of a soldier’s daughter on her cheeks.” 

stop your chatter, and let Graham go on,” 
said the major, — ” that is, if it’s prudent for him,” 
he added from a severe sense of duty. “ What fol- 
lowed that blessed shell ?” 

” A lame and impotent conclusion in the form of 
many other shells that evoked no reply ; and be- 
yond his feeble demonstration Tyler did' nothing. It 
seemed to me that a determined dash at the bridge 
would have carried it. I was fretting and fuming 
about when a staff-officer gave me a hint that noth- 
ing was to be done at present, — that it was all only a 
feint, and that the columns that had gone north- 
ward through the woods would begin the real work. 
His words were scarcely spoken before I was making 
my way to the rear. I soon reached McDowell's 
carriage at the intersection of the roads, and found 
it empty. Learning that the general, in his impa- 
tience, had taken horse and galloped off to see what 
had become of his tardy commanders, I followed at 
full speed. 

” It was a wild, rough road, scarcely more than a 
lane through the woods ; but Mayburn was equal to 
it, and like a bird carried me through its gloomy 
shades, where I observed not a few skulkers cower- 
ing in the brush as I sped by. I overtook Heintzel- 
man s command as it was crossing the run at Sud- 
ley’s Ford ; and such a scene of confusion I hope 
never to witness again. The men were emptying 
their canteens and refilling them, laving their hands 
and faces, and refreshing themselves generally. It 


212 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


was really quite a picnic. Officers were storming 
and ordering “ the boys”- — and boys they seemed, in- 
deed — to move on ; and by dint of much profanity, 
and the pressure of those following, regiment after 
regiment at last straggled up the farther bank, 
went into brigade formation, and shambled for- 
ward. 

” The cursed mob !” muttered the major. 

” Well, poor fellows ! they soon won my respect ; 
and yet, as I saw them then, stopping to pick black- 
berries along the road, I did feel like riding them 
down. I suppose my horse and I lowered the 
stream somewhat as we drank, for the day had 
grown sultry and the sun's rays intensely hot. Then 
I hastened on to find the general. It seemed as if 
we should never get out of the woods, as if the army 
had lost itself in an interminable forest. Wild birds 
and game fled before us ; and I heard one soldier 
call out to another that it was ‘ a regular Virginia 
coon-hunt.’ As I reached tl^e head of the column 
the*timber grew thinner, and I was told that Mc- 
Dowell was reconnoitring in advance. Galloping 
out into the open fields, I saw him far beyond me, 
already the target of Rebel bullets. His staff and a 
company of cavalry were with him ; and as I ap- 
proached he seemed rapidly taking in the topo- 
graphical features of the field. Having apparently 
satisfied himself, he galloped to the rear ; and at 
the same time Hunter’s troops came pouring out of 
the woods. 

” There was now a prospect of warm work and 
plenty of it. For the life of me I can’t tell you 


TIVO BATTLES. 


213 


how the battle began.. Our men came forward in an 
irregular manner, rushing onward impetuously, halt- 
ing unnecessarily, with no master mind directing. It 
seemed at first as if the mere momentum of the 
march carried us under the enemy’s fire ; and then 
there was fooljsh delay. By the aid of my powerful 
glass I was convinced that we might have walked 
right over the first thin Rebel line on the ridge 
nearest us. 

“ The artillery exchanged shots awhile. Regi- 
ments under the command of General Burnside de- 
ployed in the fields to the left of the road down 
which we had come ; skirmishers were thrown out 
rapidly and began their irregular firing at an absurd 
distance from the enemy. There was hesitancy, 
delay ; and the awkwardness of troops unaccus- 
tomed to act together in large bodies was enhanced 
by the excitement inseparable from their first ex- 
perience of real war. 

“ In spite of all this the battle-field began to pre- 
sent grand and inspiring effects. The troops were 
debouching rapidly from the woods, their bayonets 
gleaming here and there through the dust raised by 
their hurrying feet, and burning in serried lines when 
they were ranged under the cloudless sun. In every 
movement made by every soldier the metal points 
in his accoutrements flashed and scintillated. Again 
there was something very spirited in the appearance 
of a battery rushed into position at a gallop, — the 
almost instantaneous unlimbering, the caissons mov- 
ing to the rear, and the guns at the same moment 
thundering their defiance, while the smoke, lifting 


<114 


HIS> SOMBRE RIVALS. 


slowly on the heavy air, rises and blends with that of 
the other side, and hangs like a pall to leeward of 
the field. The grandest thing of all, however, was 
the change in the men. The uncouth, coarsely- 
jesting, blackberry-picking fellows that lagged and 
straggled to the battle became soldiers in their in- 
stincts and rising excitement and courage, if not in 
machine-like discipline and coolness. As I rode 
here and there I could see that they were erect, eager, 
and that their eyes began to glow like coals from 
their dusty, sunburnt visages. If there were occa- 
sional evidences of fear, there were more of resolu- 
tion and desire for the fray. 

“ The aspect of affairs on the ridge, where the 
enemy awaited us, did not grow encouraging. With 
my glass I could see reinforcements coming up 
rapidly during our delay. New guns were seeking 
position, which was scarcely taken before there was 
a puff of smoke and their iron message. Heavens ! 
what a vicious • sound those shells had! something 
between a whiz and .a shriek. Even the horses 
would cringe and shudder when one passed over 
them, and the men would duck their heads, 
though the missile was thirty feet in the air. I sup- 
pose there was some awfully wild firing on both 
sides ; but I saw several of our men carried to the 
rear. But all this detail is an old, old story to you. 
Major.’’ 

“Yes, an old story, but one that can never lose 
its fierce charm. I see it all as you describe it. 
Go on, and omit nothing you can remember of the 
scene. Mrs. Maybyrn looks as grim as one of your 


TfVO BATTLES. 215 

cannon ; and Grace, my child, you won’t flinch, will 
you ?’ ’ 

No, papa.” 

” That’s my brave wife’s child. She often said, 
‘ Tell me all. I wish to know just what you have 
passed through.’ ” 

A brief glance assured Graham that her father’s 
spirit was then supreme, and that she looked with 
woman’s admiration on a scene replete with the 
manhood woman most admires. 

” I cannot describe to you the battle, as such,” 
continued Graham. ” I can only outline faintly 
the picture I saw dimly through dust and smoke 
from my own standpoint. Being under no one’s 
orders I could go where I pleased, and I tried to 
find, the vital points. Of course, there was much 
heavy fighting that I saw nothing of, movements 
unknown to me or caught but imperfectly. During 
the preliminary conflict I remained on the right of 
Burnside’s command near the Sudley Road by which 
our army had reached the field. 

” When at last his troops began to press forward, 
their advance was decided and courageous ; but the 
enemy held their own stubbornly. The fighting 
was severe and deadly, for we were now within easy 
musket range. At one time I trembled for Burn- 
side’s lines, and I saw one of his aids gallop furiously 
to the rear for help. It came almost immediately 
in the form of a fine body of regulars under Major 
Sykes ; and our wavering lines were rendered firm 
and more aggressive than ever. At the same time 
it was evident that our forces were going into action 


2x6 


ffIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


off to the right of the Sudley Road, and that another 
battery had opened on the enemy. I afterward 
learned that they were Rickett’s guns. Under this 
increasing and relentless pressure the enemy’s lines 
were seen to waver. Wild cheers went up from our 
ranks ; and such is the power of the human voice — 
the echo direct from the heart — that these shouts 
rose above the roar of the cannon, the crash of 
musketry, and thrilled every nerve and fibre. On- 
ward pressed our men ; the Rebel lines yielded, 
broke, and our foes retreated down the hill, but at 
a dogged, stubborn pace, fighting as they went. 
Seeing the direction they were taking, I dashed into 
the Sudley Road near which I had kept as the centre 
of operations. At the intersection of this road with 
the Warrenton Turnpike was a stone house, and be- 
hind this the enemy rallied as if determined to re- 
treat no farther. I had scarcely observed this fact 
when I saw a body of men forming in the road just 
above me. In a few moments they were in motion. 
On they came, a resistless human torrent with a roar 
of hoarse shouts and cries. I was carried along with 
them ; but before we reached the stone house the 
enemy broke and fled, and the whole Rebel line was 
swept back half a mile or more. 

“ Thus you see that in the first severe conflict of 
the day, and when pitted against numbers compara- 
tively equal, we won a decided victory.” 

Both the major and Hilland drew along breath of 
relief ; and the former said, ” I have been hasty 
and unjust in my censure. If that raw militia 
could be made to fight at all, it can in time 


TIVO BATTLES, 


217 


be made to fight well. Mr. Graham, you have 
deeply gratified an old soldier to-night by de- 
scribing scenes that carry me back to the grand era 
of my life. I believe I was born to be- a soldier; 
and my old campaigns stand out in memory like 
sun-lighted mountain-tops. Forgive such high-flown 
talk, — I know it’s not like me, — but I’ve had to-night 
some of my old battle excitement. I never thought 
to feel it again. We’ll hear the rest of your story 
to-morrow. I outrank you all, by age at least ; and 
I now order ‘ taps.’ ” 

Graham was not sorry, for in strong reaction a 
sudden sense of almost mortal weakness overcame 
him. Even the presence of Grace, for whose sake, 
after all, he had unconsciously told his story, could 
not sustain him* any longer, and he sank back look- 
ing very white. 

“You /lave over-exerted yourself,” she said gently, 
coming to his side. “You should have stopped when 
I cautioned you ; or rather, we should have been 
more thoughtful.” 

“ Perhaps I have overrated my strength, — it’s a 
fault of mine,” was his smiling reply. “ I shall be 
perfectly well after a night’s rest.” 

He had looked up at her as he spoke ; and in that 
moment of weakness there was a wistful, hungry 
look in his eyes that smote her heart. 

A shallow, silly woman, or an intensely selfish 
one, would have exulted. Here was a man, cool, 
strong, and masterful among other men, — a man who 
had gone to the other side of the globe to escape 
her power, — one who within the last few days had 


2i8 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS, 


witnessed a battle with the quiet poise that enabled 
him to study it as an artist or a tactician ; and yet he 
could not keep his eyes from betraying the truth that 
there was something within his heart stronger than 
himself. 

Did Grace Hilland lay this flattering unction to 
her soul ? No. She went away inexpressibly sad. 
She felt that two battle scenes had been presented 
to her mind ; and the conflict that had been waged 
silently, patiently, and unceasingly in a strong 
man's soul had to her the higher elements of hero- 
ism. It was another of those wretched problems 
offered by this imperfect world for which there 
seems no remedy. 

When Hilland hastened over to see his friend and 
add a few hearty words to those he had already 
spoken, he was told that he was sleeping. 


CHAPTER XXL 


THE LOGIC OF EVENTS. 

G raham was right in his prediction that an- 
other night’s rest would carry hirri far on the 
road to recovery ; and he insisted, when Hilland called 
in the morning, that the major should remain in his 
accustomed chair at home, and listen to the re- 
mainder of the story. “ My habit of life is so 
active,” he said, ” that a little change will do me 
good and so it was arranged. By leaning on 
Hilland ’s shoulder he was able to limp the short 
distance between the cottages ; and he found that 
Grace had made every arrangement for his comfort 
on the piazza, where the major welcomed him with 
almost the eagerness of a child for whom an absorb- 
ing story is to be continued. 

” You can’t know how you interested us all last 
night,” Grace began. never knew papa to be 

more gratified ; and as for Warren, he could not 
sleep for excitement. Where did you learn to tell 
stories ?” 

” I was said to be very good at fiction when a 
boy, especially when I got into scrapes. But you 
can’t expect in this garish light any such effects as 


220 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


I may have created last evening. It requires the 
mysterious powej" of night and other conditions to 
secure a glamour ; and so you must look for the 
baldest prose to-day.’' 

“ Indeed, Graham, we scarcely . know what to ex- 
pect from you any more,” Hilland remarked. 
‘‘From being a quiet cynic philosopher, content to 
delve in old libraries^ like the typical bookworm, 
.you become an indefatigable sportsman, horse-tamer, 
explorer of the remote parts of the earth, and last, 
and strangest, a newspaper correspondent who 
doesn’t know that the place to see and write about 
battles is several miles in the rear. What will you 
do next ?” 

“My future will be redeemed from the faintest 
trace of eccentricity. I shall do what about a mill- 
ion other Americans will do eventually, — go into 
the army.” 

” Ah ! now you talk sense, and I am with you. I 
shall be ready to go as soon as you are well enough. 

” I doubt it.” 

” I don’t.” 

“Grace, what do you say to all this?” turning 
a troubled look upon the wife. 

“ I foresee that, like my mother, I am to be the 
wife of a soldier,” she replied with a smile, while 
tears stood in her eyes. “ I did not marry Warren 
to destroy his sense of manhood.” 

“You see, Graham, how it is. You also per- 
ceive what a knight I must be to be worthy of the 
lady I leave in bower. 

“ Yes ; I see it all too well. But I must misquote 


THE LOGIC OF EVENTS. 


2£l 


Shakespeare to you, and ‘ charge you to stand on the 
order of your going and I think the rest of my 
story will prove that I have good reason for the 
charge.” 

” I should have been sorry,” said the major, ” to 
have had Grace marry a man who would consult 
only ease and safety in times like these. It will be 
awfully hard to have him go. But the time may 
soon come when it would be harder for Grace to 
have him stay ; that is, if she is like her mother. 
But what’s the use of looking at the gloomy side ? 
I’ve been through a dozen battles ; and here I am to 
plague the world yet. But now for the story. You 
left off, Mr. Graham, at the rout of the first Rebel 
line of battle.” 

” And this had not been attained,” resumed Gra- 
ham, ” without serious loss to our side. Colonel 
Hunter, who commanded the Second Division, you 
remember, was so severely wounded by a shell that 
he had to leave the field early in the action. 
Colonel Slocum of one of the Rhode Island regi- 
ments was mortally wounded ; and his major had 
his leg crushed by a cannon ball which at the same 
time killed his horse. Many others were wounded 
and must have had a hard time of it, poor fellows, 
that hot day. As for the dead that strewed the 
ground — their troubles were over.” 

” But not the troubles of those that loved them,” 
said Grace, bitterly. 

Graham turned hastily away. When a moment 
later he resumed his narrative, she noticed that his 
eyes were moist and his tones husky. 


222 


.HTS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


“ Our heaviest loss was in the demoralization of 
some of the regiments engaged. They appeared to 
have so little cohesion that one feared all the time 
that they might crumble away into mere human 
atoms. 

“ The affair continually took on a larger aspect, 
as more troops became engaged. We had driven 
the Confederates down a gentle slope, across a small 
stream called Young’s Branch, and up a hill beyond 
and to the south. This position was higher and 
stronger than any they had yet occupied. On the 
crest of the hill were two houses ; and the enemy 
could be seen forming a line extending from one to 
the other. They were evidently receiving reinforce- 
ments rapidly. I could see gray columns hastening 
forward and deploying ; and I’ve no doubt that 
many of the fugitives were rallied beyond this line. 
Meanwhile, I was informed that Tyler’s Division, left 
in the morning at Stone Bridge, had crossed the 
Run, in obedience to McDowell’s orders, and were 
on the field at the left of our line. Such, as far as I 
could judge, was the position of affairs between 
twelve and one, although I can give you only my 
impressions. It appeared to me that our men were 
fighting well, gradually and steadily advancing, and 
closing in upon the enemy. Still, I cannot help 
feeling that if we had followed up our success by the 
determined charge of one brigade that would hold 
together, the hill might have been swept, and vic- 
tory made certain. 

“ I had taken my position near Rickett’s and 
Griffin’s batteries on the right of our line, and de- 


THE LOGIC OF EVENTS. 223 

cided to follow them up, not only because they were 
doing splendid work, but also for the reason that 
they would naturally be given commanding positions 
at vital points. By about two o’clock we had occu- 
pied the Warrenton Turnpike ; and we justly felt 
that much had been gained. The Confederate lines 
between the two houses on the hill had given way ; 
and from the sounds we heard, they must have 
been driven back also by a charge on our extreme 
left. Indeed, there was scarcely anything to be 
seen of the foe that thus far had been not only 
seen but felt. 

“ From a height near the batteries where I stood, 
the problem appeared somewhat clear to me. We 
had driven the enemy up and over a hill of con- 
siderable altitude, and across an uneven plateau, and 
they were undoubtedly in the woods beyond, a 
splendid position which commanded the entire open 
space over which we must advance to reach them. 
They were in cover ; we should be in full view in 
all efforts to dislodge them. Their very reverses had 
secured for them a position worth half a dozen regi- 
ments ; and I trembled as I thought of our raw 
militia advancing under conditions that would try 
the courage of veterans. You remember that if 
Washington, in the Revolution, could get his new 
recruits behind a rail-fence, they thought they were 
safe. 

“ Well, there was no help for it. The hill and 
plateau must be crossed under a point-blank fire, in 
order to reach the enemy, and that, too, by men 
who had been under arms since midnight, and the 


224 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


majority wearied by a long march under a blazing 
sun. 

“ About half past two, when the assault began, a 
strange and ominous quiet rested on the field. As 
I have said, the enemy had disappeared. The men 
scarcely knew what to think of it ; and in some a 
false confidence, speedily dispelled, was begotten. 
Rickett’s battery was moved down across the valley 
to the top of a hill just beyond the residence owned 
and occupied by a Mrs. Henry. I followed and 
entered the house, already shattered by shot and 
shell, curious to know whether it was occupied, and 
by whom. Pitiful to relate, I found that Mrs. Henry 
was a widow and a helpless invalid. The poor woman 
was in mortal terror ; and it was my hope to return 
and carry her to some place of safety, but the swift 
and deadly tide of war gave me no chance.* 

“ Rickett’s battery had scarcely unlimbered before 
death was busy among his cannoneers and even his 
horses. The enemy had the cover not only of the 
woods, but of a second growth of pines, which fringed 
them and completely concealed the Rebel sharp- 
shooters. When a man fell, nothing could be seen 
but a puff of smoke. These little jets and wreaths 
of smoke half encircled us, and made but a phantom- 
like target for our people ; and I think it speaks 
well for officers and men that they not only did 
their duty, but that Griffin’s battery also came up, 
and that both batteries held their own against a ter- 

♦ Mrs. Henry, although confined to her bed, was wounded two 
or three times, and died soon afterward. 


THE LOGIC OF EVENTS. 


225 


rific point-blank fire from the Rebel cannon, which 
certainly exceeded ours in number. The range was 
exceedingly short, and a more terrific artillery duel 
it would be hard to imagine. At the same time the 
more deadly little puffs of smoke continued ; and 
men in every attitude of duty would suddenly throw 
up their hands and fall. The batteries had no busi- 
ness to be so exposed, and their supports were of no 
real service. 

I can give you an idea of what occurred at this 
point only ; but, from the sounds I heard, there was 
very heavy fighting 'elsewhere, which I fear, how- 
ever, was too spasmodic and ill-directed to accom- 
plish the required ends. A heavy, persistent, concen- 
trated attack, a swift push with the bayonet through 
the low pines and woods, would have saved the 
day. Perhaps our troops were not equal to it ; and 
yet, poor fellows, they did braver things that were 
utterly useless. 

‘ ‘ I still believe, however, all might have gone well, 
had it not been for a horrible mistake. I was not 
very far from Captain Griffin, and was watching his 
cool, effective superintendence of his guns, when 
suddenly I noticed a regiment in full view on our 
right advancing toward us. Griffin caught sight 
of it at the same moment, and seemed amazed. 
Were they Confederates or National ? was the ques- 
tion to be decided instantly. They might be his 
own support. Doubtful and yet exceedingly ap- 
prehensive, he ordered his guns to be loaded with 
canister and trained upon this dubious force that had 
come into view like an apparition ; but he still hesi* 


226 


HIS SOMBRE R/VALS. 


tated, restrained, doubtless, by the fearful thought 
of annihilating a Union regiment. 

“ ‘ Captain,’ said Major Barry, chief of artillery, 
‘ they are your battery support.’ 

They are Confederates,’ Griffin replied, in- 
tensely excited. ‘ As certain as the world, they are 
Confederates. ’ 

No,’ was the answer, ' I know they are your 
battery support.’ 

“ I had ridden up within ear-shot, and levelled my 
glass upon them. ‘ Don’t fire,' cried Griffin, and he 
spurred forward to satisfy himself. 

“ At the same moment the regiment, now within 
short range, by a sudden instantaneous act levelled 
their muskets at us. I saw we were doomed, and 
yet by some instinct tightened my rein while I dug 
my spurs into my horse. He reared instantly. I 
saw a line of fire, and then poor Mayburn fell upon 
me, quivered, and was dead. The body of a man 
broke my fall in such a way that I was not hurt. In- 
deed, at the moment I was chiefly conscious of in- 
tense anger and disgust. If Griffin had followed his 
instinct and destroyed that regiment, as he could 
have done by one discharge, the result of the whole 
battle might have been different. As it was, both 
his and Rickett’s batteries were practically anni- 
hilated.”* 

* Since the above was written Colonel Hasbrouck has given 
me an account of this crisis in the battle. He was sufficiently 
near to hear the conversation found in the text, and to enable me 
*o supplement it by fuller details. Captain Griffin emphatically de- 
clared that no Union regiment could possibly conje from that 
quarter, adding, They are dressed in gray,” 


THE LOGIC OF EVEHTS. 


22 ] 


The major uttered an imprecation. 

“ I was pinned to the ground by the weight of my 
horse, but not so closely but that I could look 
around. The carnage had been frightful. But few 

Major Barry with equal emphasis asserted that they were National 
troops, and unfortunately we had regiments in gray uniforms. See- 
ing that Captain Griffin was not convinced, he said peremptorily, 
“ 1 command you not to fire on that regiment.” 

Of course this direct order ended the controversy, and Captain 
Griffin directed that his guns be shifted again toward the main 
body of the enemy, while he rode forward a little space to recon- 
noitre. 

During all this fatal delay the Confederate regiment was ap- 
proaching, marching by the flank, and so passed at one time with- 
in point-blank range of the guns that would scarcely have left a 
man upon his feet. The nature of their advance was foolhardy 
in the extreme, and at the time that Captain Griffin wished to fire 
they were practically helpless. A Virginia worm-fence was in 
their path, and so frightened, nervous, and excited were they that, 
instead of tearing it down, they began clambering over it until by 
weight and numbers it was trampled underfoot. 

They approached so near that the order to ” fire low” was dis- 
tinctly heard by our men as the Confederates went into battle-line 
formation. 

The scene following their volley almost defies description. The 
horses attached to caissons not only tore down and through the 
ascending National battle-line, but Colonel-^then Lieutenant — 
Hasbrouck saw several teams dash over the knoll toward the 
Confederate regiment, that opened ranks to let them pass. So 
novel were the scenes of war at that time that the Confederates 
were as much astonished as the members of the batteries left alive, 
and at first did not advance, although it was evident that there were, 
at the moment, none to oppose them. The storm of Rebel bullets 
had ranged so low that Lieutenant Hasbrouck and Captain Griffin 
owed their safety to the fact that they were mounted. The horses 
of both officers were wounded. On the way down the northerp 
slope of the hill, with the tew Union survivors. Captain Griffin me* 


22S 


ms SOMBRE RIVALS. 


were on their feet, and they in rapid motion to the 
rear. The horses left alive rushed down the hill 
with the caissons, spreading dismay, confusion, and 
disorder through the ascending line of battle. Our 
supporting regiment in the rear, that had been lying 
on their arms, sprang to their feet and stood like men 
paralyzed with horror ; meanwhile, the Rebel regi- 
ment, reinforced, was advancing rapidly on the dis- 
abled guns, — their defenders lay beneath and around 
them, — firing as they came. Our support gave them 
one ineffectual volley, then turned and fled.” 

Again the major relieved his m-ind in his charac- 
teristic way. 

” But you, Alford ?” cried Grace, leaning forward 
with clasped hands, while his aunt came and buried 
her face upon his shoulder. ‘‘ Are you keeping 
your promise to live ?” she whispered. 

‘‘Am 1 not here safe and sound.?” he replied, 
cheerily. 

‘‘ Nothing much happened to me, Grace. When 
I saw the enemy was near, I merely doubled myself 
up under my horse, and was nothing to them but a 
dead Yankee. I was only somewhat trodden upon, 
as I told you, when the Confederates tried to turn the 
guns against our forces. 

‘‘ I fear I am doing a wrong to the ladies by going 
into these sanguinary details.” 

Major Barry, and in his intense anger and grief reproached him 
bitterly. The latter gloomily admitted that he had been mistaken. 

Captain Ricketts was wounded, and the battle subsequently 
surged back and forth over his prostrate form, but eventually he 
was sent as a captive to Richmond. 


THE LOGIC OF EVENTS. 2^29 

“No,” said the major, emphatically ; “ Mrs. May- 
burn would have been a general had she been a man ; 
and Grace has heard about battles all her life. It’s 
a great deal better to understand from the start 
what this war means.” 

“ I especially wished Hilland to hear the details 
of this battle as far as I saw them, for I think they 
contain lessons that may be of great service to him. 
That he would engage in the war was a foregone con- 
clusion from the first ; and with his means and ability 
he may take a very important part in it. But of 
this later. 

“ As I told you, I made the rather close acquaint- 
ance of your kin, Grace, and can testify that the 
‘ fa’ of their feet ’ was not ‘ fairy-like. ’ Before they 
could accomplish their purpose of turning the guns 
on our lines, I heard the rushing tramp of a multi- 
tude, with defiant shouts and yells. Rebels fell 
around me. The living left the guns, sought to form 
a line, but suddenly gave way in dire confusion, and 
fled to the cover from which they came. A moment 
later a body of • our men surged like an advancing 
wave over the spot they had occupied. 

“ Now was my chance ; and I reached up and seized 
the hand of a tall, burly Irishman. 

“ ‘ What the divil du’ ye want ? ’ he cried, and in 
his mad excitement was about to thrust me through 
for a Confederate. 

. “ ‘ Halt ! ’ I thundered. The familiar word of 
command restrained him long enough for me to 
secure his attention. ‘ Would you kill a Union 
man ? ' 


ms SOMBJ^E EIVALS. 

‘ Is it Union ye are ? What yez doin’ here, thin, 
widout a uniform ? ’ 

“ I showed him my badge of correspondent, and 
explained briefly. 

“ Strange as it may seem to you, he uttered a 
loud, jolly laugh. ‘ Faix, an’ it’s a writer ye are. 
Ye’ll be apt to git some memmyrandums the day 
that ye’ll carry about wid ye till ye die, and that 
may be in about a minnit. I’ll shtop long enough 
to give yez a lift, or yez boss, rather ; ’ and he 
seized poor Mayburn by the head. His excite- 
ment seemed to give him the strength of a giant, 
for in a moment I was released and stood erect. 

“ ‘ Give me a musket,’ I cried, ‘ and I’ll stand by 
you.’ 

‘ Bedad, hilp yersilf,’ he replied, pushing for- 
ward. ‘ There’s plenty o’ fellers lyin’ aroun’ that has 
no use for them and he was lost in the confused 
advance. 

“ All this took place in less time than it takes to 
describe it, for events at that juncture were almost 
as swift as bullets. Lame as I was, I hobbled around 
briskly, and soon secured a good musket with a 
supply of cartridges. As with the rest, my blood 
was up, — don’t smile, Hilland : I had been pretty 
cool until the murderous discharge that killed my 
horse, — and I was soon in the front line, firing with 
the rest. 

“ Excited as I was, I saw that our position was 
desperate, for a heavy force of Confederates was 
swarming toward us. I looked around and saw that 
part of our men were trying to drag off the guns. 


THE LOGIC OF EVENTS. 


231 


This seemed the more important work ; and dis- 
cretion also whispered that with my bruised foot I 
should be captured in five minutes unless I was 
farther to the rear. So I took a pull at a gun ; but 
we had made little progress before there was another 
great surging wave from the other direction, and 
our forces were swept down the hill again, I along 
with the rest. The confusion was fearful ; the regi- 
ments with which I had been acting went all to 
pieces, and had no more organization than if they 
had been mixed up by a whirlwind. 

“ I was becoming too lame to walk, and found my- 
self in a serious dilemma.” 

” Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” laughed Hilland. ” It was just 
becoming serious, eh Y' 

‘‘ Well, I didn’t realize my lameness before ; and 
as retreat was soon to be the order of the day, there 
was little prospect of my doing my share. As I was 
trying to extricate myself from the shattered regi- 
ments, I saw a riderless horse plunging toward me. 
To seize his bridle and climb into the saddle was 
the work of a moment ; and I felt that, unlike Mc- 
Dowell, I was still master of the situation. Work- 
ing my way out of the press and to our right, I saw 
that another charge for the guns by fresh troops 
was in progress. It seemed successful at first. The 
guns were retaken, but soon the same old story was 
repeated, and a corresponding rush from the other 
side swept our men back. 

” Would you believe it, this capture and recapt- 
ure occurred several times. A single regiment even 
wpul<J dash forward, and actually drive the Rebels 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS, 


232 

back, only to lose a few moments later what they 
had gained. Never was there braver fighting, never 
worse tactics. The repeated successes of small 
bodies of troops proved that a compact battle line 
could have swept the ridge, and not only retaken 
the guns, but made them effective in the con- 
flict. As it was, the two sides worried and tore each 
other like great dogs, governed merely by the im- 
pulse and instinct of fight. The batteries were 
the bone between them. 

“ This senseless, wasteful struggle could not go on 
forever. That it lasted as long as it did speaks 
volumes in favor of the material of which our future 
soldiers are to be made. As I rode slowly from the 
line and scene of actual battle, of which I had had 
enough, I became disheartened. We had men in 
plenty, — there were thousands on every side, — but 
in what condition ! There was no appearance of 
fear among the men I saw at about four P.M. (I 
can only guess the time, for my watch had stopped), 
but abundant evidence of false confidence and still 
more of the indifference of men who feel they 
have done all that should be required of them and 
are utterly fagged out. Multitudes, both officers 
and privates, were lying and lounging around wait- 
ing for their comrades to finish the ball. 

“ For instance, I would ask a man to what regi- 
ment he belonged, and he would tell me. 

“ ‘ Where is it ? ’ 

* Hanged if I know. Saw a lot of the boys 
awhile ago.* 

“ Said an officer in answer to my inquiries, ‘ No ; 


THE LOGIC OF EVENTS. 233 

I don’t know where the colonel is, and I don’t care. 
After one of our charges we all adjourned like a 
town meeting. I’m played out ; have been on my 
feet since one o’clock last night.’ 

These instances were characteristic of the state 
of affairs in certain parts of the field that I visited. 
Plucky or conscientious fellows would join their 
comrades in the fight without caring what regiment 
they acted with ; but the majority of the great dis- 
organized mass did what they pleased, after the man- 
ner of a country fair, crowding in all instances around 
places where water could be obtained. Great num- 
bers had thrown away their canteens and provisions, 
as too heavy to carry in the heat, or as impediments 
m action. Officers and men were mixed up promis- 
cuously, hobnobbing and chaffing in a languid way, 
and talking over their experiences, as if they were 
neighbors at home. The most wonderful part of it 
all was that they had no sense of their danger and 
of the destruction they were inviting by their unsol- 
dierly course. 

“ I tried to impress these dangers on one or two, 
but the reply was, ‘ O, hang it ! The Rebs are as 
badly used up as we are. Don’t you see things are 
growing more quiet ? Give us a rest !’ 

By this time I had worked my way well to my 
right, and was on a little eminence watching our 
line advance, wondering at the spirit with which the 
fight was still maintained. Indeed, I grew hopeful 
once more as I saw the good work that the regi- 
ments still intact were doing. There was much truth 
in the remark that the Rebels were used up also, 


234 


ms SOMBRE rivals. 


unless they had reserves of which we knew nothing. 
At that time we had no idea that we had been fight- 
ing, not only Beauregard, but also Johnson from 
the Shenandoah. 

“ My hope was exceedingly intensified by the ap- 
pearance of a long line of troops emerging from the 
woods on our flank and rear, for I never dreamed 
that they could be other than our own reinforce- 
ments. Suddenly I caught sight of a flag which I 
had learned to know too well. The line halted a 
moment, muskets were levelled, and I found myself 
in a perfect storm of bullets. I assure you I made 
a rapid change of base, for when our line turned I 
should be between two fires. As it was, I was cut 
twice in this arm while galloping away. In a few 
moments a battery also opened upon our flank ; and 
it became as certain as day that a large Confederate 
f force from some quarter had been hurled upon the 
flank and rear of our exhausted forces. The belief 
that Johnson’s army had arrived spread like wild- 
fire. How absurd and crude it all seems now ! We 
had been fighting Johnson from the first. 

“ All aggressive action on our part now ceased ; 
and as if governed by one common impulse, the army 
began its retreat. 

“ Try to realize it. Our retirement was not 
ordered. There were thousands to whom no order 
could be given unless with a voice like a thunder 
peal. Indeed, one may say, the order was given by 
the thunder of that battery on our flank. It was 
heard throughout the field ; and the army, acting 
as individuals or in detachments, decided to leave. 


THE LOGIC OF EVENTS, 


235 


To show how utterly bereft of guidance, control, 
and judgment were our forces, I have merely to 
say that each man started back by exactly the same 
route he had come, just as a horse would do, while 
right before them was the Warrenton Pike, a good, 
straight road direct to Centerville, which was distant 
but little over four miles. 

“ This disorganized, exhausted mob was as truly 
in just the fatal condition for the awful contagion 
we call ‘panic* as it would have been, from improper 
food and other causes, for some other epidemic. 
The Greeks, who always had a reason for every- 
thing, ascribed the nameless dread, the sudden and 
unaccountable fear, which bereaves men of man- 
hood and reason, to the presence of a god. It is 
simply a latent human weakness, which certain con- 
ditions rarely fail to develop. They were all present 
at the close of that fatal day. I tell you frankly 
that I felt something of it myself, and at a time, 
too, when I knew I was not in the least immediate 
danger. To counteract it I turned and rode 
deliberately toward the enemy, and the emotion 
passed. I half believe, however, that if I had 
yielded, it would have carried me away like an 
attack of the plague. The moral of it all is, that 
the conditions of the disease should be guarded 
against. 

“ When it became evident that the army was un- 
controllable and was leaving the field, I pressed my 
way to the vicinity of McDowell to see what he 
would do. What CQuld he do ? I never saw a man 
SO overwhelmed vyjth astonishment ^nd anger, 


236 


ffis SOMBRE RIVALS. 


Almost to the last I believe he expected to win the 
day. He and his officers commanded, stormed, 
entreated. He might as well have tried to stop 
Niagara above the falls as that human tide. He sent 
orders in all directions for a general concentration at 
Centerville, and then with certain of his staff gal- 
loped away. I tried to follow, but was prevented 
by the interposing crowd. 

“ I then joined a detachment of regulars and ma- 
ines, who marched quietly in prompt obedience of 
orders ; and we made our way through the disorder 
like a steamer through the surging waves. All the 
treatises on discipline that were ever written would 
not have been so convincing as that little oasis of 
organization. They marched very slowly, and often 
halted to cover the retreat. 

“ I had now seen enough on the farther bank of 
Bull Run, and resolved to push ahead as Hast as my 
horse would walk to the eastern side. Moreover, 
my leg and wounds were becoming painful, and I 
was exceedingly weary. I naturally followed the 
route taken by Tyler’s command in coming upon 
and returning from the field, and crossed Bull Run 
some distance above the Stone Bridge. The way 
was so impeded by fugitives that my progress was 
slow, but when I at last reached the Warrenton Turn- 
pike and proceeded toward a wretched little stream 
called Cub Run, I witnessed a scene that beggars 
description. 

“Throughout the entire day, and especially in 
the afternoon, vehicles of every description — supply 
wagons, ambulances, and the carriages of civilians — 


THE LOGIC OF EVENTS. 


2S7 


had been congregating in the Pike in the vicinity of 
Stone Bridge. When the news of the defeat 
reached this point, and the roar of cannon and mus- 
ketry began to approach instead of recede, a general 
movement tow;ard Centerville began. This soon 
degenerated into the wildest panic, and the road was 
speedily choked by storming, cursfng, terror-stricken 
men, who, in their furious haste, defeated their own 
efforts to escape. It was pitiful, it was shameful, 
to see ambulances full of the wounded shoved to one 
side and left by the cowardly thieves who had gal- , 
loped away on the horses. It was one long scene of 
wreck and ruin, through which pressed a struggling, 
sweating, cursing throng. Horses with their traces' 
cut, and carrying two and even three men, were urged 
on and over everybody that could not get out of 
the way. Everything was abandoned that would 
impede progress, and arms and property of all kinds 
were left as a rich harvest for the pursuing Confed- 
erates. Their cavalry hovering near, like hawks 
eager for the prey, made dashes here and there, as 
opportunity offered. 

“ I picked my way through the woods rather than 
take my chances in the road, and so my progress 
was slow. To make matters tenfold worse, I found 
when I reached the road leading to the north 
through the ‘ Big Woods ’ that the head of the 
column that had come all the way around by Sud- 
ley’s Ford, the route of the morning’s march, was 
mingling with the masses already thronging the Pike. 
The confusion, the selfish, remorseless scramble to 
get ahead, seemed as horrible as it could be ; but 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


238 

imagine the condition of affairs when on reaching 
the vicinity of Cub Run we found that a Rebel bat- 
tery had opened upon the bridge, our only visible 
means of crossing. A few moments later, from a 
little eminence, I saw a shot take effect on a team 
of horses ; and a heavy caisson was overturned 
directly in the centre of the bridge, barring all 
advance, while the mass of soldiers, civilians, and 
nondescript army followers, thus detained under 
fire, became perfectly wild with terror. The caisson 
was soon removed, and the throng rushed on. 

“ I had become so heart-sick, disgusted, and 
weary of the whole thing, that my one impulse was 
to reach Centerville, where I supposed we should 
make a stand. As I was on the north side of the 
Pike, I skirted up the stream with a number of 
others until we found a place where we could 
scramble across, and soon after we passed within a 
brigade of our troops that were thrown across the 
road to check the probable pursuit of the enemy. 

“On reaching Centerville, we found everything 
in the direst confusion. Colonel Miles, who com- 
manded the reserves at that point, was unfit for 
the position, and had given orders that had imper^s 
illed the entire army. It was said that the troops 
which had come aroqnd by Sudley’s Ford Ijad lost 
all their guns at Cub Run ; aqd the fugitives arriving 
were demoralized to the last degree. Indeed, a large 
part of the army, without waiting for orders or pay- 
ing heed to any one, continued their flight toward 
Washington, Holding the bridle of my horse I lay 
(:]own near headquarters to r?st and to learn what 


THR LOGIC OR EVEMTG, 


^30 


would be done. A council of war was held, and as 
the result we were soon on the retreat again. The 
retreat, or panic-stricken flight rather, had, in fact, 
never ceased on the part of most of those who had 
been in the main battle. That they could keep up 
this desperate tramp was a remarkable example of 
human endurance when sustained by excitement, 
fear, or any strong emotion. The men who marched 
or fled on Sunday night had already been on their 
feet twenty-four hours, and the greater part of them 
had experienced the terrific strain of actual battle. 

My story has already been much too long. From 
the daily journals you have learned pretty accurately 
what occurred after we reached Centerville. Richard- 
son’s and Blenker’s brigades made a quiet and 
orderly retreat when all danger to the main body 
was over. The sick and wounded were left behind 
with spoils enough to equip a good-sized Confeder- 
ate army. I followed the headquarters escort, and 
eventually made my way into Washington in the 
drenching rain of Monday, and found the city 
crowded with fugitives to whom the loyal people 
were extending unbounded hospitality. I felt ill 
and feverish, and yielded to the impulse to reach 
home ; and I never acted more wisely. 

“ Now you have the history of my first battle ; 
and may I never see one like it again. And yet I 
believe the battle of Bull Run will become one 
of the most interesting studies of American his- 
tory and character. On our side it was not di- 
rected by generals, according to the rules of war. 
It was fought by Northern men after their own 


£40 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


fashion and according to their native genius ; and 
I shall ever maintain that it was fought far better 
than could have been expected of militia who knew 
less of the practical science of war than of the phi- 
losophy of Plato. 

“ The moral of my story, Hilland, scarcely needs 
pointing ; and it applies to us both. When we go, 
let us go as soldiers ; and if we have only a cor- 
poral's command, let us lead soldiers. The grand 
Northern onset of which you have dreamed so long 
has been made. You have seen the result. You 
have the means and ability to equip and command 
a regiment. Infuse into it your own spirit ; and 
at the same time make it a machine that will hold 
together as long as you have a man left." 

" Graham," said Hilland, slowly and deliberately, 
"there is no resisting the logic of events. You 
have convinced me of my error, and I shall follow 
your advice." 

" And, Grace," concluded Graham, " believe me, 
by so doing he adds tenfold to his chances of living 
to a good old age." 

" Yes, " she said, looking at him gratefully through 
tear-dimmed eyes. "You have convinced me of 
that also." 

" Instead of rushing off to some out-of-the-way 
place or camp, he must spend months in recruiting 
and drilling his men ; and you can be with him." 

"O Alford !" she exclaimed, " is that the heavenly 
logic of your long, terrible story ?" 

" It’s the rational logic ; you could not expect any 
other kind from me." 


THE LOGIC OF EVENTS. 


241 


“Well, Graham,*' ejaculated the major, with a 
long sigh of relief, “ I wouldn’t have missed your ac- 
count of the battle for a year’s pay. And mark my 
words, young men, you may not live to see it, or I 
either, but the North will win in this fight. That’s 
the fact that I’m convinced of in spite of the 
panic.” 

” The fact that I’m convinced of,” said Mrs. 
Mayburn brusquely, mopping her eyes meanwhile, 
” is that Alford needs rest. I’m going to take him 
home at once.” And the young man seconded her in 
spite of all protestations. 

” Dear, vigilant old aunty,” said Graham, when 
they were alone, ‘ ‘ you know when I have reached 
the limit of endurance.” 

” Ah ! Alford, Alford,” moaned the poor woman, 
” I fear you are seeking death in this war.” 

He looked at her tenderly for a moment, and then 
said, ” Hereafter I will try to take no greater risks 
than a soldier’s duties require. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


SELF-SENTENCED. 

D ays, weeks, and months with their changes 
came and went. Hilland, with characteristic 
promptness, carried out his friend’s suggestion ; and 
through his own means and personal efforts, in great 
measure, recruited and equipped a regiment of caval- 
ry. He was eager that his friend should take a com- 
mand in it ; but Graham firmly refused. 

“ Our relations are too intimate for discipline,” 
he said. ‘‘ We might be placed in situations where- 
in our friendship would embarrass us.” 

Grace surmised that he had another reason ; for, 
as time passed, she saw less and less of him. He 
had promptly obtained a lieutenancy in a regiment 
that was being recruited at Washington ; and by 
the time her husband’s regiment reached that city, 
the more disciplined organization to which Graham 
was attached was ordered out on the Virginia picket 
line, beyond Arlington Heights. 

Hilland, with characteristic modesty, would not 
take the colonelcy of the regiment that he chiefly 
had raised ; but secured for the place a fine officer 
of the regular army, and contented himself with a 


SELF’ SENTENCED. 


243 


captaincy. “ Efficiency of the service is what I am 
aiming at,” he said. ” I would much rather rise by 
merit from the ranks than command a brigade by 
favor.” 

Unlike many men of wealth, he had a noble re- 
pugnance to taking any public advantage of it ; and 
the numerous officers of the time that had obtained 
their positions by influence were his detestation. 

Graham's predictions in regard to Grace were ful- 
filled. For long months she saw her husband almost 
daily, and, had it not been for the cloud that hung 
over the future, it would have been one of the happi- 
est periods of her life. She saw Hilland engaged in 
tasks that brought him a deep and growing satis- 
faction. She saw her father in his very element. 
There were no more days of dulness and weariness 
for him. The daily journals teemed with subjects 
of interest, and with their aid he planned innumer- 
able campaigns. Military men were coming and 
going, and with these young officers the veteran 
was an oracle. He gave Hilland much shrewd 
advice ; and even when it was not good, it was lis- 
tened to with deference, and so the result was 
just as agreeable to the major. 

What sweeter joy is there for the aged than to sit 
in the seat of judgment and counsel, and feel that the 
world would go awry were it not for the guidance 
and aid of their experience ! Alas for the poor 
old major, and those like him ! The world does 
not grow old as they do. It only changes and be- 
comes more vast and complicated. What was wisest, 
and best in their day becomes often as antiquated a^ 


244 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


the culverin that once defended castellate'd ram- 
parts. 

Happily the major had as yet no suspicion of this ; 
and when he and Grace accompanied Hilland and 
his regiment to Washington, the measure of his con- 
tent was full. There he could daily meet other 
veterans of the regular service ; and in listening to 
their talk, one might imagine that McClellan had only 
to attend -their sittings to learn how to subdue the 
rebellion within a few months. These veterans 
were not bitter partisans. General Robert E. Lee 
was “ Bob Lee” to them ; and the other chiefs of 
the Confederacy were spoken of by some familiar 
sobriquet^ acquired in many instances when boys at 
West Point. They would have fought these old 
friends and acquaintances to the bitter end, accord- 
ing to the tactics of the old school ; but after the 
battle, those that survived would have hobnobbed 
together over a bottle of wine as sociably as if they 
had been companions in arms. 

Mrs. Mayburn accompanied the major’s party to 
Washington, for, as she said, she was “ hungry for 
a sight of her boy.” As often as his duties per- 
mitted, Graham rode in from the front to see her. 
But it began to be noticed that after these visits he 
ever sought some perilous duty on the picket line, 
or engaged in some dash at the enemy or guerillas 
in the vicinity. He could not visit his aunt with- 
out seeing Grace, whose tones were now. so gentle 
when she spoke to him, and so full of her heart’s 
deep gratitude, that a renewal of his old fierce fever 
of unrest was the result. He was already gaining a 


SELF-SENTENCED. 


245 


reputation for extreme daring, combined with un- 
usual coolness and vigilance ; and before the cam- 
paign of ’62 opened he had been promoted to a first 
lieutenancy. 

Time passed ; the angry torrent of the war broad- 
ened and deepened. Men and measures that had 
stood out like landmarks were ingulfed and for- 
gotten. 

It goes without saying that the friends did their 
duty in camp and field. There were no more panics. 
The great organizer, McClellan, had made soldiers of 
the vast army ; and had he been retained in the 
service as the creator of armies for other men to 
lead, his labors would have been invaluable. 

At last, to the deep satisfaction of Graham and 
Hilland, their regiments were brigaded together, and 
they frequently met. It was then near the close of 
the active operations of ’62, and the friends now 
ranked as Captain Graham and Major Hilland. Not- 
withstanding the reverses suffered by the Union 
arms, the young men’s confidence was unabated as 
to the final issue. Hilland had passed through 
several severe conflicts, and his name had been 
mentioned by reason of his gallantry. Grace be- 
gan to feel that fate could never be so cruel as to 
destroy her very life in his life. She saw that her 
father exulted rnore over her husband’s soldierly qual- 
ities than in all his wealth ; and although they spent 
the summer season as usual at the sea-side with Mrs. 
Mayburn, the hearts of all three were following two 
regiments through the forests and fields of Virginia. 
Half a score of journals were daily searched for 


246 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS, 


items concerning them, and the arrival of the mails 
was the event of the day. 

There came a letter in the autumn which filled 
the heart of Grace with immeasurable joy and very, 
very deep sadness. Mrs. Mayburn was stricken to 
the heart, and would not be comforted, while the 
old major swore and blessed God by turns. 

The cause was this. The brigade with which the 
friends were connected was sent on a reconnois- 
sancCy and they felt the enemy strongly before re- 
tiring, which at last they were compelled to do pre- 
cipitately. It so happened that Hilland commanded 
the rear-guard. In an advance he ever led ; on a 
retreat he was apt to keep well to the rear. In the 
present instance the pursuit had been prompt and 
determined, and he had been compelled to make 
more than one repelling charge to prevent the re- 
tiring column from being pressed too hard. His 
command had thus lost heavily, and at last over- 
whelming numbers drove them back at a gallop. 

Graham, in the rear of the main column, which 
had just crossed a small wooden bridge over a wide 
ditch or little run through the fields, saw the head- 
long retreat of Hilland’s men, and he instantly de- 
ployed his company that he might check the close 
pursuit by a volley. As the Union troopers neared 
the bridge it was evidently a race for life and liberty, 
for they were outnumbered ten to one. In a few 
moments they began to pour over, but Hilland did 
not lead. They were nearly all across, but their 
commander was not among them ; and Graham was 
with anxietj^ as he sat on his horse ^t the right 


t^ELF-SENTENCED, 


H'1 

of his line waiting to give the order to lire. Sud- 
denly, in the failing light of the evening, he saw 
Hilland with his right arm hanging helpless, spur- 
ring a horse badly blown ; while gaining fast upon 
him were four savage-looking Confederates, their 
sabres emitting a steely, deadly sheen, and uplifted 
to strike the moment they could reach him. 

With the rapidity of light, Graham’s eye measured 
the distance between his friend and the bridge, and 
his instantaneous conviction was that Hilland was 
doomed, for he could not order a volley without kill- 
ing him almost to a certainty. At that supreme cri- 
sis, the suggestion passed through his mind like a lurid 
flash, “ In a few moments Hilland will be dead, and 
Grace may yet be mine.” 

Then, like an avenging demon, the thought con- 
fronted him. He saw it in its true aspect, and in 
an outburst of self-accusing fury he passed the death 
sentence on himself. Snatching out the long, 
straight sword he carried, he struck with the spur 
the noble horse he bestrode, gave him the rein, and 
made straight for the deep, wide ditch. There was 
no time to go around by the bridge, which was still 
impeded by the last of the fugitives. 

His men held their breath as they saw his pur- 
pose. The feat seemed impossible ; but as his 
steed cleared the chasm by a magnificent bound, a 
loud cheer rang down the line. The next moment 
Hilland, who had mentally said farewell to his wife, 
saw Graham passing him like a thunderbolt. There 
was an immediate clash of steel, and then the fore- 
most pursuer was down, cleft to the jaw. The next 


248 B 2 S SOMBRE RIVALS. 

shared the same fate ; for Graham, in what he 
deemed his death struggle, had almost ceased to be 
human. His spirit, stung to a fury that it had never 
known and would never know again, blazed in his 
eyes and flashed in the lightning play of his sword. 
The two other pursuers reined up their steeds and 
sought to attack him on either side. He threw his 
own horse back almost upon his haunches, and was 
on his guard, meaning to strike home the moment 
the fence of his opponents permitted. At this in- 
stant, however, there were a dozen shots from the 
swarming Rebels, that were almost upon him, and 
he and his horse were seen to fall to the ground. 
Meantime Hilland had instinctively tried to rein in 
his horse, that he might return to the help of his 
friend, although from his wound he could render no 
aid. Some of his own men who had crossed the 
bridge, and in a sense of safety had regained their 
wits, saw his purpose, and dashing back, they 
formed a body-guard around him, and dragged his 
horse swiftly beyond the line of battle. 

A yell of anger accompanied by a volley came 
from Graham's men that he had left in line, and a 
dozen Confederate saddles were emptied ; but theii 
return fire was so deadly, and their numbers were so 
overwhelming, that the officer next in command or- 
dered retreat at a gallop. Hilland, in his anguish, 
would not have left his friend had not his men grasped 
his rein and carried him off almost by force. Mean- 
while the darkness set in so rapidly that the pursuit 
soon slackened and ceased. 

During the remainder of the ride back to their 


SELF- SENTENCED. 


249 


camp, which was reached late at night, the ardent- 
natured Hilland was almost demented. He wept, 
raved, and swore. He called himself an accursed 
coward, that he had left the friend who had saved 
his life. His broken arm was as nothing to him, 
and eventually the regimental surgeon had to ad- 
minister strong opiates to quiet him. 

When late the next day he awoke, it all came 
back to him with a dull heavy ache at heart. Noth- 
ing could be done. His mind, now restored to its 
balance, recognized the fact. The brigade was 
under orders to move to another point, and he was 
disabled and compelled to take a leave of absence 
until fit for duty. The inexorable mechanism of 
military life moves on, without the slightest regard 
for the individual ; and Graham's act was only one 
of the many heroic deeds of the war, some seen and 
more unnoted. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


AN EARLY DREAM FULFILLED. 

FEW days later Grace welcomed her husband 



with a long, close embrace, but with stream- 
ing eyes ; while he bowed his head upon her shoul- 
der and groaned in the bitterness of his spirit. 

“ Next to losing you, Grace,” he said, ” this is 
the heaviest blow I could receive ; and to think that 
he gave his life for me ! How can I ever face Mrs. 
Mayburn ?” 

But his wife comforted him as only she knew how 
to soothe and bless ; and Mrs. Mayburn saw that he 
was as sincere a mourner as herself. Moreover they 
would not despair of Graham, for although he had 
been seen to fall, he might only have been wounded 
and made a prisoner. Thus the bitterness of their 
grief was mitigated by hope. 

This hope was fulfilled in a most unexpected way, 
by a cheerful letter from Graham himself ; and the 
explanation of this fact requires that the story 
should return to him. 

He thought that the sentence of death which he 
had passed upon himself had been carried into 
effect, He had felt himself falling, and then there had 


AJ^ early dream EULFILLED. 251 

been sudden darkness. Like a dim taper flickering 
in the night, the spark of life began to kindle again. 
At first he was conscious of but one truth, — that he 
was not dead. Where he now was, in this world 
or some other, what he now was, he did not know ; 
but the essential ego, Alford Graham, had not 
ceased to exist. The fact filled him with a dull, 
wondering awe. Memory slowly revived, and its 
last impression was that he was to die and had died, 
and yet he was not dead. 

As a man’s characteristic traits will first assert 
themselves, he lay still and feebly tried to compre- 
hend it all. Suddenly a strange, horrid sound smote 
upon his senses and froze his blood with dread. It 
must be life after death, for only his mind appeared 
t’o have any existence. He could not move. Again 
the unearthly sound, which could not be a human 
shriek, was repeated ; and by half-involuntary and 
desperate effort he started up and looked around. 
The scene at first was obscure, confused, and awful. 
His eye could not explain it, and he instinctively 
stretched out his hands ; and through the sense of 
touch all that had happened came back to his con- 
fused brain. He first felt of himself, passed his 
hand over his forehead, his body, his limbs : he cer- 
tainly was in the flesh, and that to his awakening 
intelligence meant much, since it accorded with his 
belief that life and the body were inseparable. Then 
he felt around him in the darkness, and his hands 
touched the grassy field. This fact righted him 
speedily. As in the old fable, when he’ touched the 
earth he was strong. He next noted that his head 


252 ms SOMBRE RIVALS. 

rested on a smooth rock that rose but little above the 
plain, and that he must have fallen upon it. He sat 
up and looked around ; and as the brain gradually 
resumed its action after its terrible shock, the situa- 
tion became intelligible. The awful sounds that he 
had heard came from a wounded horse that was 
struggling feebly in the light of the rising moon, 
now in her last quarter. He was upon the scene of 
last evening’s conflict, and the obscure objects that 
lay about him were the bodies of the dead. Yes, 
there before him were the two men he had killed ; 
and their presence brought such a strong sense of 
repugnance and horror that he sprang to his feet 
and recoiled away. 

He looked around. There was not a living object 
in sight except the dying horse. The night wind 
moaned about him, and soughed and sighed as if it 
were a living creature mourning over the scene. 

It became clear to him that he had been left as 
dead. Yes, and he had been robbed, too ; for he 
shivered, and found that his coat and vest were 
gone, also his hat, his money, his watch, and his boots. 
He walked unsteadily to the little bridge, and where 
he had left his line of faithful men, all was dark 
and silent. With a great throb of joy he remem- 
bered that Hilland must have sped across that 
bridge to safety, while he had expiated his evil 
thought. 

He then returned and circled around the place. 
He was evidently alone ; but the surmise occurred 
to him that the Confederates would return in the 
morning to bury their dead, and if he would escape 


AJ\r EARLY DREAM FULFILLED. 


253 


he must act promptly. And yet he could not travel 
in his present condition. He must at least have 
hat, coat, and boots. His only resource was to ta.ve 
them from the dead ; but the thought of doing so 
was horrible to him. Reason about it as he might, 
he drew near their silent forms with an uncontrol- 
lable repugnance. He almost gave up his purpose, 
and took a few hasty steps away, but a thorn 
pierced his foot and taught him his folly. Then his 
imperious will asserted itself, and with an impreca- 
tion on his weakness he returned to the nearest 
silent form, and took from it a limp felt hat, a coat, 
and a pair of boots, all much the worse for wear ; 
and having arrayed himself in these, started on the 
trail of the Union force. 

He had not gone over a mile when, on surmount- 
ing an eminence, he saw by dying fires in a grove be- 
neath him that he was near the bivouac of a body of 
soldiers. He hardly hoped they could be a detach- 
ment of Union men ; and yet the thought that it 
was possible led him to approach stealthily within 
ear-shot. At last he heard one patrol speak to an- 
other in unmistakable Southern accent, and he 
found that the enemy was in his path. 

Silently as a ghost he stole away, and sought to 
make a wide detour to the left, but soon lost him- 
self hopelessly in a thick wood. At last, wearied 
beyond mortal endurance, he crawled into what 
seemed the obscurest place he could find, and lay 
down and slept. 

The sun was above the horizon when he awoke, 
stiff, sore, and hungry, but refreshed, rested. A red 


ms SOMBkk RIVALS, 


254 

squirrel was barking at him derisively from a bough 
near, but no other evidences of life were to be seen. 
Sitting up, he tried to collect his thoughts and de- 
cide upon his course. It at once occurred to him 
that he would be missed, and that pursuit might be 
made with hounds. At once he sprang to his feet 
and made his way toward a valley, which he hoped 
would be drained by a running stream. The wel- 
come sound of water soon guided him, and pushing 
through the underbrush he drank long and deeply, 
bathed the ugly bruise on his head, and then waded 
up the current. 

He had not gone much over half a mile before he 
saw through an opening a negro gazing wonderingly 
at him. “ Come here, my good fellow,” he cried. 

The man approached slowly, cautiously. 

” I won’t hurt you,” Graham resumed ; ” indeed 
you can see that I’m in your power. Won’t you 
help me ?” 

” Dunno, mas’r,” was the non-committal reply. 

” Are you in favor of Lincoln’s men or the Con- 
federates T ’ 

” Dunno, mas’r. It ’pends.” 

” It depends upon what ?” 

“On whedder you’se a Linkum man or ’Feder- 
ate.” 

” Well, then, here’s the truth. The Lincoln men 
are your best friends, if you’ve sense enough to 
know it ; and I’m one of them. I was in the fight 
off there yesterday, and am trying to escape.” 

”0 golly! I’se sense enough;” and the genial 
gleam of the man’s ivory was an omen of good to 


AN EARLY DREAM FULFILLED, 


255 


Graham. “But,” queried the negro, “how you 
wear ’Federate coat and hat T* 

“ Because I was left for dead, and mine were 
stolen. I had to wear something. The Confed- 
erates don’t wear blue trousers like these.” 

” Dat’s so ; an’ I knows yer by yer talk and look. 
I knows a ’Federate well as I does a coon. But 
dese yere’s mighty ticklish times ; an’ a nigger hab 
no show ef he’s foun’ meddlin’. What’s yer gwine 
ter do ?” 

“ Perhaps you can advise me. I’m afraid they’ll 
put hounds on my trail.” 

“ Pat dey will, if dey misses yer.” 

“ Well, that’s the reason I’m here in the stream. 
But I can’t keep this up long. I’m tired and hungry. 
I’ve heard that you people befriended Lincoln’s 
men. We are going to win, and now’s the time 
for you to make friends with those who will soon 
own this country.” 

“ Ob corse, you’se a gwine ter win. Linkum is de 
Moses we’re all a lookin’ ter. At all our meetin’s 
we’se a prayin’ for him and to him. He’s de 
Lord’s right han’ to lead we alls out ob bondage.” 

“ Well, I swear to you I’m one of his men.” 

” I knows you is, and I’se a gwine to help you, 
houn’s or no houn’s. Keep up de run a right smart 
ways, and you’se ’ll come ter a big flat stun.’ Stan’ 
dar in de water, an I ’*11 be dar wid help.” And the 
man disappeared in a long swinging run. 

Graham did as he was directed, and finally 
reached a flat rock, from which through the thick 
bordering growth something like a path led away. 


256 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


He waited until his patience was well-nigh ex- 
hausted, and then heard far back upon his trail the 
faint bay of a hound. He was about to push his 
way on up the stream, when there was a sound of 
hasty steps, and his late acquaintance with another 
stalwart fellow appeared. 

“ Dere’s no time ter lose, mas’r. Stan’ whar 
you is,” and in a moment he splashed in beside him. 
” Now get on my back. Jake dar will spell me 
when I wants him ; fer yer feet musn’t touch de 
groun’;” and away they went up the obscure path. 

This was a familiar mode of locomotion to Gra- 
ham, for he had been carried thus by the hour over 
the mountain passes of Asia. They had not gone 
far before they met two or three colored women with 
a basket of clothes. 

” Dat’s right,” said Graham’s conveyance ; ” wash 
away right smart, and dunno nothin’. Yer see,” he 
continued, ” dis yer is Sunday, and we’se not in de 
fields, an de women folks can help us ;” and Graham 
thought that the old superstition of a Sabbath had 
served him well for once. 

They soon left the path and entered some very 
heavy timber, through an opening of which he saw 
the negro quarters and plantation dwellings in the 
distance. 

At last they stopped before an immense tree. 
Some brush was pushed aside, revealing an aperture 
through which Graham was directed to crawl, and 
he. found himself within a heart of oak. 

” Dar’sroom enough in dar ter sit down,” said his 
sable friend. ” An’ you’se '11 find a jug ob milk 


AN EARLY DREAM FULFILLED. . 


257 


an’ a pone ob corn meal. Luck ter yen Don’t git 
lonesome like and come out. We’se a gwine ter 
look arter yer and the opening was hidden by 
brush again, and Graham was left alone. 

From a small aperture above his head a pencil of 
sunlight traversed the gloom, to which his eyes soon 
grew accustomed, and he saw a rude seat and the 
food mentioned. By extending his feet slightly 
through the opening by which he had entered, he 
found the seat really comfortable ; and the coarse 
fare was ambrosial to his ravenous appetite. In- 
deed, he began to enjoy the adventure. His place 
of concealment was so unexpected and ingenious 
that it gave him a sense of security. He had ever 
had a great love for trees, and now it seemed as if 
one had opened its very heart to hide him. 

Then his hosts and defenders interested him ex- 
ceedingly. By reason of residence in New England 
and his life abroad, he was not familiar with the negro, 
especially his Southern type. Their innocent guile 
and preposterous religious belief amused him. He 
both smiled and wondered at their faith in “ Lin- 
kum,” whom at that time he regarded as a long- 
headed, uncouth Western politician, who had done 
not a little mischief by interfering with the army. 

‘‘ It is ever so with all kinds of superstition and 
sentimental belief,” he soliloquized. ” Some con- 
ception of the mind is embodied, or some object is 
idealized and magnified until the original is lost 
sight of, and men come to worship a mere fancy of 
their own. Then some mind, stronger and more 
imaginative than the average, gives shape and form 


258 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


to this confused image ; and so there grows in time 
a belief, a theology, or rather a mythology. To 
think that this Lincoln, whom I’ve seen in atti- 
tudes anything but divine, and telling broad, coarse 
stories, — to think that he should be a demigod, 
antitype of the venerated Hebrew ! In truth it 
leads one to suspect, according to analogy, that 
Moses was a money-making Jew, and his effort to 
lead his people to Palestine an extensive land specu- 
lation.” 

Graham lived to see the day when he acknowl- 
edged that the poor negroes of the most remote 
plantations had a truer conception of the grand pro- 
portions of Lincoln’s character at that time than the 
majority of his most cultivated countrymen. 

His abstract speculations were speedily brought 
to a close by the nearer baying of hounds as they 
surmounted an eminence over which lay his trail. 
On came the hunt, with its echoes rising and falling 
with the wind or the inequalities of the ground, 
until it burst deep-mouthed and hoarse over the 
brow of the hill that sloped to the stream. Then 
there were confused sounds, both of the dogs and of 
men’s voices, which gradually approached until there 
was a pause, caused undoubtedly by a colloquy with 
Aunt Sheba and her associate washerwomen. It 
did not last very long ; and then, to Graham’s dis- 
may, the threatening sounds were renewed, and 
seemed coming directly toward him. He soon gave 
up all hope, and felt that he had merely to con- 
gratulate himself that, from the nature of his hiding- 
place, he could not be torn by the dogs, when he 


AN- EAkLY DREAM EVLElLLED. ^ 5 ^ 

perceived that the hunt was coming no nearer, — in 
brief, that it was passing. He then understood that 
his refuge must be near the bed of the stream, from 
which his pursuers were seeking on either side his 
diverging trail. This fact relieved him at once, 
and quietly he listened to the sounds, dying away as 
they had come. 

As the sun rose higher the ray of light sloped 
downward until it disappeared ; and in the profound 
gloom and quiet he fell asleep. He was awaked by 
hearing a voice call, “ Mas’r.” 

Looking down he saw that the brush had been 
removed, and that the opening was partially ob- 
structed by a goblin-like head with little horns rising 
all over it. 

“ Mas’r,'’ said the apparition, “Aunt Sheba 
sends you dis, and sez de Lord be wid you.” 

“ Thanks for Aunt Sheba, and you too, whatever 
you are,” cried Graham ; and to gratify his curiosity 
he sprang down on his knees and peered out in time 
to see a little negro girl replacing the brush, while 
what he had mistaken for horns was evidently the 
child’s manner of wearing her hair. He then gave his 
attention to the material portion of Aunt Shaba’s 
offering, and found a rude sort of platter, or low 
basket, made of corn husks, and in this another jug 
of milk, corn bread, and a delicious broiled chicken 
done to that turn of perfection of which only the 
colored aunties of the South are capable. 

“Well!” ejaculated Graham. “From this day 
I'm an abolitionist, a Republican of the blackest 
dye.” A little later he added, “ Any race that can 


2^0 


ms SOMBRE RIVALS, 


produce a woman capable of such cookery as this 
has a future before it/* 

Indeed, the whole affair was taking such an 
agreeable turn that he was inclined to be jocular. 

After another long sleep in the afternoon, he was 
much refreshed, and eager to rejoin his command. 
But Issachar or Iss, as his associates called him, the 
negro who had befriended him in the first instance, 
came and explained that the whole country was full 
of Confederates ; and that it might be several days 
before it would be safe to seek the Union lines. 

“ We’se all lookin’ out fer yer, mas’r,” he con- 
tinued; ‘‘you won’t want for nothin’. An’ we 
won’t kep yer in dis woodchuck hole arter nine ob 
de ev’nin’. Don’t try ter come out. I’m lookin’ 
t’oder way w^hile I’se a talkin’. Mean niggers an’ 
’Federates may be spyin’ aroun’. But I reckon 
not ; I’se laid in de woods all day, a watchin’. 

“ Now I tell yer what ’tis, mas’r, I’se made up 
my mine to put out ob heah. I’se gwine ter jine de 
Linkum men fust chance I gits. An’ if yer’ 11 wait 
an’ trus’ me. I’ll take yer slick and clean ; fer I know 
dis yer country and ebery hole whar ter hide well as 
a fox. If I gits safe ter de Linkum folks, yer ’ll say 
a good word fer Iss, I reckon. ’ ’ 

“ Indeed, I will. If you wish, I’ll take you into 
my own service, and pay you good wages.” 

” Done, by golly ; and when dey cotch us, dey’ll 
cotch a weasel asleep.” 

” But haven’t you a wife and children?” 

” O, yah. I’se got a wife, an’ I’se got a lot ob 
chillen somewhar in de ’Fed’racy ; but I’ll come 


AN EARL Y DREAM FULFILLED. 


261 


wid you uns bime by, an' gedder up all I can fine. 
I’se '11 come ’long in de shank ob de ev’nin’, 
mas’r, and guv yer a shakedown in my cabin, an’ 
I’ll watch while yer sleeps. Den I’ll bring yer back 
heah befo’ light in de mawnin’.” 

The presence of Confederate forces required these 
precautions for several days, and Iss won Graham’s 
whole heart by his unwearied patience and vigilance. 
But the young man soon prevailed on the faithful 
fellow to sleep nights while he watched ; for after 
the long inaction of the day hQ was almost wild for 
exercise. Cautious Iss would have been nearly 
crazed with anxiety had he known of the reconnois- 
sances in which his charge indulged while he slept. 
Graham succeeded in making himself fully master of 
the disposition of the Rebel forces in the vicinity, 
and eventually learned that the greater part of them 
had been withdrawn. When he had communicated 
this intelligence to Iss, they prepared to start for the 
Union lines on the following night, which proved dark 
and stormy. 

Iss, prudent man, kept the secret of his flight 
from even his wife, and satisfied his marital com- 
punctions by chucking her under the chin and call- 
ing her “ honey” once or twice while she got sup- 
per for him. At eight in the evening he summoned 
Graham from his hiding-place, and led him, with 
almost the unerring instinct of some wild creature of 
the night, due north-east, the direction in which the 
Union forces were said to be at that time. It was a 
long, desolate tramp, and the dawn found them 
drenched and weary. But the glorious sun rose 


262 


BIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


warm and bright, and in a hidden glade of the forest 
they dried their clothes, rested and refreshed them- 
selves. After a long sleep in a dense thicket they 
were ready to resume their journey at nightfall. 
Iss proved an invaluable guide, for, concealing Gra- 
ham, he would steal away, communicate with the 
negroes, and bring fresh provisions. 

On the second night he learned that there was a 
Union force not very far distant to the north of 
their line of march. Graham had good cause to 
wonder at the sort of ireemasonry that existed among 
the negroes, and the facility with which they ob- 
tained and transmitted secret intelligence. Still 
more had he reasoti to bless their almost universal 
fidelity to the Union cause. 

Another negro joined them as guide, and in the 
gray of the morning they approached the Union 
pickets. Graham deemed it wise to wait till they 
could advance openly and boldly ; and by nine 
o’clock he was received with acclamations by his own 
regiment as one risen from the dead. 

After congratulations and brief explanations were 
over, his first task was to despatch the two brief let- 
ters mentioned, to his aunt and Hilland, in time to 
catch the daily mail that left their advanced posi- 
tion. Then he saw his brigade commander, and 
made it clear to him that with a force of about two 
regiments he could strike a heavy blow against the 
Confederates whom he had been reconnoitring ; and 
he offered to act as guide. His proposition was ac- 
cepted, and the attacking force started that very 
night. By forced marches they succeeded in sur- 


AN EARLY DREAM FULFILLED. 


263 


prising the Confederate encampment and in captur- 
ing a large number of prisoners. Iss also surprised 
his wife and Aunt Sheba even more profound- 
ly, and before their exclamations ceased he had 
bundled them and their meagre belongings into a 
mule cart, with such of the “ chillen” as had been 
left to him, and was following triumphantly in the 
wake of the victorious Union column ; and not a 
few of their sable companions kept them company. 

The whole affair was regarded as one of the most 
brilliant episodes of the campaign ; and Graham re- 
ceived much credit, not only in the official re- 
ports, but in the press. Indeed, the latter, although 
with no aid from the chief actor, obtained an outline 
of the whole story, from the rescue* of his friend to 
his guidance of the successful expedition, and it was 
repeated with many variations and exaggerations. 
He cared little for these brief echoes of fame ; but 
the letters of his aunt, Hilland, and even the old 
major, were valued indeed, while a note from the 
grateful wife became his treasure of treasures. 

They had returned some time before to the St. 
John cottage, and she had at last written him a let- 
ter “ straight from her heart,” on the quaint secre- 
tary in the library, as he had dreamed possible on the 
first evening of their acquaintance. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


UNCHRONICLED CONFLICTS. 

RAH AM’S friends were eager that he should 



VJT obtain leave of absence, but he said, “ No, 
not until some time in the winter.” 

His aunt understood him sufficiently well not to 
urge the matter, and it may be added that Grace 
did also. 

Hilland’s arm healed rapidly, and happy as he was 
in his home life at the cottage he soon began to 
chafe under inaction. Before very long it became 
evident that the major had not wholly outlived his 
influence at Washington, for there came an order 
assigning Major Hilland to duty in that city ; and 
thither, accompanied by Grace and her father, he soon 
repaired. The arrangement proved very agreeable 
to Hilland during the period when his regiment 
could engage in little service beyond that of dreary 
picket duty. He could make his labors far more 
useful to the government in the city, and could also 
enjoy domestic life with his idolized wife. Mrs. 
Mayburn promised to join them after the holidays, 
and the reason for her delay was soon made evident. 

One chilly, stormy evening, when nature was in a 


VnchronicleD conflicts. 


265 


most uncomfortable mood, a card was brought to the 
door of Hilland’s rooms at their inn just as he, with 
his wife and the major, was sitting down to one of 
those exquisite little dinners which only Grace knew 
how to order. Hilland glanced at the card, and 
gave such a shout that the waiter nearly fell over 
backward. 

“ Where is the gentleman ? Take me to him on 
the double-quick. It's Graham. Hurrah! I'll order 
another dinner!" and he vanished, chasing the 
man down-stairs and into the waiting-room, as if he 
were a detachment of Confederate cavalry. The de- 
corous people in the hotel parlor were astounded as 
Hilland nearly ran over the breathless waiter at the 
door, dashed in like a whirlwind; and carried off 
his friend, laughing, chaffing, and embracing him all 
the way up the stairs. It Was the old, wild exuber- 
ancy of his college days, only intensified by the 
deepest and most grateful emotion. 

Grace stood within her door blushing, smiling, and 
with tears of feeling in her lovely eyes. 

" Here he is," cried Hilland, — " the very god of 
war. Give him his reward, Grace, — a kiss that he 
will feel to the soles of his boots." 

But she needed no prompting, for instead of tak- 
ing Graham's proffered hand, she put her hands on 
his shoulders and kissed him again and again, ex- 
claiming, " You saved Warren's life ; you virtually 
gave yours for his ; and in saving him you saved 
me. May God bless you every hour you live !" 

"Grace," he said gravely and gently, looking 
down into her swimming eyes and retaining her 


266 


m$ SOMBRE RIVALS. 


hands in a strong, warm clasp, “ I am repaid a thou- 
sand-fold. I think this is the happiest moment of 
my life and then he turned to the major, who was 
scarcely less demonstrative in his way than Hilland 
had been. 

“ By Jove !” cried the veteran, “ the war is going 
to be the making of you young fellows. Why, Gra- 
ham, you no more look like the young man that 
played whist with me years since than I do. You 
have grown broad-shouldered and distingu^, and you 
have the true military air in spite of that quiet civil - 
ian’s dress.” 

”0, I shall always be comparatively insignifi- 
cant,” replied Graham, laughing. ” Wait till Hil- 
land wears the stars, as he surely will, and then you’ll 
see a soldier.” 

” We see far more than a soldier in you, Alford,” 
said Grace, earnestly. ” Your men told Warren of 
your almost miraculous leap across the ditch ; and 
Warren has again and again described your appear- 
ance as you rushed by him on his pursuers. O, 
I’ve seen the whole thing in my dreams so often !” 

” Yes, Graham ; you looked like one possessed. 
You reminded me of the few occasions when, in old 
college days, you got into a fury.” 

A frown as black as night lowered on Graham’s 
brow, for they were recalling the most hateful mem- 
ory of his life, — a thought for which he felt he ought 
to die ; but it passed almost instantly, and in the 
most prosaic tones he said, “ Good friends. I’m 
hungry. I’ve splashed through Virginia mud twelve 
mortal hours to-day. Grace, be prepared for such 


UNCHRONICLED CONFLICTS, 267 

havoc as only a cavalry man can make. We don’t 
get such fare as this at the front.” 

She, with the pretty housewifely bustle which he 
had admired years ago, rang the bell and made prep- 
arations for a feast. 

” Every fatted calf in Washington should be killed 
for you,” she cried, — “prodigal that you are, but 
only in brave deeds. Where’s Iss ? I want to see 
and feast him also.” 

“ I left him well provided for in the lower regions, 
and astounding the ‘ cullud bredren ’ with stories 
which only the African can swallow. He shall come 
up by and by, for I have my final orders to give. 
He leads my horse back to the regiment in the 
morning, and takes care of him in my absence. I 
hope to spend a month with aunt.” 

“And how much time with us?” asked Hilland, 
eagerly. 

“ This evening.” 

“ Now, Graham, I protest' — ” 

“Now, Hilland, I’m ravenous, and here’s a din- 
ner fit for the Great Mogul.” 

“ O, I know you of old. When you employ a 
certain tone you intend to have your own way ; but 
it isn’t fair.” 

“ Don’t take it to heart. I’ll make another raid on 
you when I return, and then we shall soon be at the 
front together again. Aunty’s lonely, you know.’* 

“ Grace and I don’t count, I suppose,” said the 
major. “ I had a thousand questions to ask you 
and he looked so aggrieved that Graham compro- 
mised and promised to spend the next day with him. 


268 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


Then he gave an almost hilarious turn to the rest 
of the evening, and one would have thought that he 
was in the high spirits natural to any young officer 
with a month’s leave of absence. He described 
the “ woodchuck hole” which had been his hiding- 
place, sketched humorously the portraits of Iss, 
Aunt Sheba, who was now his aunt’s cook, and gave 
funny episodes of his midnight prowlings while 
waiting for a chance to reach the Union lines. 
Grace noted how skilfully he kept his own per- 
sonality in the background unless he appeared in 
some absurd or comical light ; and she also noted 
that his eyes rested upon her less and less 
often, until at last, after Iss had had his most flat- 
tering reception, he said good-night rather ab- 
ruptly. 

The next day he entertained the major in a way 
that was exceedingly gratifying and flattering to the 
veteran. He brought some excellent maps, pointed 
out the various lines of march, the positions of the 
opposing armies, and showed clearly what had been 
done and what might have been. He next became 
the most patient and absorbed listener, as the old 
gentleman, by the aid of the same maps, planned a 
campaign which during the coming year would have 
annihilated the Confederacy. Grace, sitting near the 
window, might have imagined herself almost ig- 
nored. But she interpreted him differently. She 
now had the key which explained his conduct, and 
more than once tears came into her eyes. 

Hilland returned early, having hastened through 
his duties, and was in superb spirits, They spent 


UNCHRONJCLED CONFLICTS. 


269 


an afternoon together which stood out in memory 
like a broad gleam of sunshine in after years ; and 
then Graham took his leave with messages from all 
to Mrs. Mayburn, who was to return with him. 

As they were parting, Grace hesitated a moment, 
and then stepping forward impulsively she took 
Graham’s hand in both of hers, and said impetuously, 
“You have seen how very, very happy we all are. 
Do you think that I forget for a moment that I owe 
it to you ?“ 

Graham’s iron nerves gave way. His hand trem- 
bled. “ Don’t speak to me in that way,’’ he mur- 
mured. “ Come, Hilland, or I shall miss the train 
and in a moment he was gone. 

Mrs. Mayburn never forgot the weeks he spent 
with her. Sometimes she would look at him wonder- 
ingly, and once she said: “ Alford, it is hard for me 
to believe that you have passed through all that you 
have. Day after day passes, and you seem perfectly 
content with my quiet, monotonous life. You read 
to me my old favorite authors. You chaff me and 
Aunt Sheba about our little domestic economies. Be- 
yond a hasty run through the morning paper you 
scarcely look at the daily journals. You are content 
with one vigorous walk each day. Indeed you seem 
to have settled down and adapted yourself to my old 
woman’s life for the rest of time. I thought you 
would be restless, urging my earlier return to Wash- 
ington, or seeking to abridge your leave, so that you 
might return to the excitement of the camp.” 

“No, aunty dear, I am not restless. I have out- 
lived and outgrown that phase of my life. You 


270 


ms SOMBRE RIVALS. 


will find that my pulse is as even as yours. Indeed 
I have a deep enjoyment of this profound quiet of 
our house. I have fully accepted my lot, and now 
expect only those changes that come from without 
and not from within. To be perfectly sincere with 
you, the feeling is growing that this profound qui- 
etude that has fallen upon me may be the prelude to 
final rest. It’s right that I should accustom your 
mind to the possibilities of every day ‘in our coming 
campaign, which I well foresee will be terribly severe. 
At first our generals did not know how to use 
cavalry, and beyond escort and picket duty little 
was asked of it. Now all this is changed. Cavalry 
has its part in every pitched battle, and in the inter- 
vals it has many severe conflicts of its own. Dar- 
ing, ambitious leaders are coming to the front, and 
the year will be one of great and hazardous activity. 
My chief regret is that H Aland’s wound did not dis- 
able him wholly from further service in the field. Still 
he will come out all right. He always has and ever 
will. There are hidden laws that control and shape 
our lives. It seems to me that you were predes- 
tined to be just what you are. Your life is rounded 
out and symmetrical according to its own law. The 
same is true of H Aland and of myself thus far. The 
rudiments of what we are to-day were clearly ap- 
parent when we were boys. He is the same ardent, 
jolly, whole-souled fellow that clapped me on the 
back after leaving the class-room. Everybody liked 
him then, everything favored him. Often when he 
had not looked at a lesson he would make a superb 


UNCHRONICLED CONFLICTS. 


271 


recitation. I was moody and introspective ; so I 
am to-day. Even the unforeseen events of life league 
together to develop one’s characteristics. The con- 
ditions of his life to-day are in harmony with all 
that has been ; the same is true of mine, with the 
strange exception that I have found a home and a 
dear stanch friend in one who I supposed would 
ever be a stranger. See how true my theory is of 
Grace and her father. Her blithesome girlhood 
has developed into the happiest wifehood. Her 
brow is as smooth as ever, and her eyes as bright. 
They have only gained in depth and tenderness as 
the woman has taken the place of the girl. Her 
form has only developed into lovelier proportions, 
and her character into a more exquisite symmetry. 
She has been one continuous growth accorciing to 
the laws of her being ; and so it will be to the end. 
She will be just as beautiful and lovable in old age 
as now ; for nature, in a genial mood, infused into her 
no discordant, disfiguring elements. The major 
also is completing his life in consonance with all 
that has gone before.” 

” Alford, you are more of a fatalist than a materi- 
alist. In my heart I feel, I know, you are wrong. 
What you say seems so plausible as to be true ; 
but my very soul revolts at it all. There is* a deep 
undertone of sadness in your words, and they 
point to a possibility that would imbitter every 
moment of the remnant of my life. Suppose you 
should fall, what remedy would there be for me ? 
O, in anguish I have learned what life would become 


272 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


then. I am a materialist like yourself, although all 
the clergymen in town would say I was orthodox. 
From earliest recollection mere things and certain 
people have been everything to me ; and now you are 
everything, and yet at this hour the bullet may be 
moulded which will strike you down. Grace, with 
her rich, beautiful life, is in equal danger. Hilland 
will go into the field- and will expose himself as reck- 
lessly as yourself. I have no faith in your obscure 
laws. Thousands were killed in the last campaign, 
thousands are dying in hospitals this moment, and 
all this means thousands of broken hearts, unless they 
are sustained by something I have not. This world 
is all very well when all is well, but it can so easily 
become an accursed world y'/V The old lady spoke 
with a strange bitterness, revealing the profound dis- 
quietude that existed under the serene amenities of 
her age and her methodical life. 

Graham sought to give a lighter tone to their talk 
and said, “ O, well, aunty, perhaps we are darken- 
ing the sun with our own shadows. We must take 
life as we find it. There is no help for that. You 
have done so practically. With your strong good 
sense you could not do otherwise. The trouble is that 
you are haunted by old-time New England beliefs 
that, from your ancestry, have become infused into 
your very blood. You can’t help them any more 
than other inherited infirmities which may have 
afflicted your grandfather. Let us speak of some- 
thing else. Ah, here , is a welcome diversion, — the 
daily paper, — and I’ll read it through to you, and 


UNCHRONICLED CONFLICTS. 


273 


we'll gain another hint as to the drift of this great 
tide of events.” 

The old lady shook her head sadly ; and the fact 
that she watched the young man with hungry, wist- 
ful eyes, often blinded with tears, proved that neither 
state nor military policy was uppermost in her mind. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


A PRESENTIMENT. 


N Christmas morning Graham found his break- 



V-/ fast-plate pushed back, and in its place lay a 
superb sword and belt, fashioned much like the one 
he had lost in the rescue of his friend. With it was 
a genial letter from Hilland, and a little note from 
Grace, which only said : 

“You will find my name engraved upon the sword 
with Warren’s. We have added nothing else, for 
the good reason that our names mean everything, — 
more than could be expressed, were the whole blade 
covered with symbols, each meaning a volume. 
You have taught us how you will use the weapon, 
my truest and best of friends. 


Grace Hilland.” 


His eyes lingered on the name so long that his 
aunt asked, “ Why don’t you look at your gift ?” 

He slowly drew the long, keen, shining blade, 
and saw again the name “ Grace Hilland,” and for 
a time he saw nothing else. Suddenly he turned 
the sword and on the opposite side was “ Warren 
Hilland,” and he shook his head sadly. 


A PRESENTIMENT. 


275 


“Alford, what is the matter?” his aunt asked 
impatiently. 

” Why didn’t they have their names engraved to- 
gether?” he muttered slowly. ” It’s a bad omen. 
See, a sword is between their names. I wish they 
had been together. O, I wish Hilland could be kept 
out of the field !” 

” There it is, Alford,” began his aunt, irritably; 
” you men who don’t believe anything are always 
the victims of superstition. Bad omen, indeed !” 

” Well, I suppose I am a fool ; but a strange chill 
at heart struck me for which I can’t account and 
he sprang up and paced the floor uneasily. 

Well,” he continued, ” I would bury it in my own 
heart rather than cause her one hour’s sorrow, but I 
wish their names had been together. ’ ’ Then he took 
it up again and said, ” Beautiful as it is, it may have 
to do some stern work, Grace, — work far remote from 
your nature. All I ask is that it may come between 
Hilland and danger again. I wish I had not had 
that strange, cursed presentiment.” 

” O Alford ! I never saw you in such a mood, and 
on Christmas morning, too !” 

That is just what I don’t like about it, — it’s not 
my habit to indulge such fancies, to say the least. 
Come what may, however, I dedicate the sword to 
her service without counting any cost and he 
kissed her name, and laid the weapon reverently 
aside. ' 

“You are morbid this morning. Go to the door 
and see my present to you. You will find no bad 
omens on his shining coat.” 


2/6 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


Graham felt that it was weak to entertain sucV^ 
impressions as had mastered him, and hastened out. 
There, pawing the frozen ground, was a horse 
that satisfied even his fastidious eye. There was 
not a white hair in the coal-black coat. In his en- 
thusiasm he forgot his hat, , and led the beautiful 
creature up and down, observing with exultation his 
perfect action, clean-cut limbs, and deep, broad 
chest. 

“ Bring me a bridle,” he said to the man in at- 
tendance', ‘ ‘ and my hat. 

A moment later he had mounted. 

” Breakfast is getting cold,” cried his aunt from 
the window, delighted, nevertheless, at the appreci- 
ation of her gift. 

” This horse is breakfast and dinner both,” he 
shouted, as he galloped down the path. 

Then, to the old lady’s horror, he dashed through 
the trees and shrubbery, took a picket-fence in a flying 
leap, and circled round the house till Mrs. Mayburn’s 
head was dizzy. Then she saw him coming toward 
the door as if he would ride through the house ; but 
the horse stopped almost instantly, and Graham was 
on his feet, handing the bridle to the gaping groom. 

“Take good care of him,” he said to the man, 
“ for he is a jewel.” 

“ Alford,” exclaimed his aunt, “ could you make 
no better return for my gift than to frighten me out 
of my wits ?” 

“Dear aunty, you are too well supplied ever to 
lose them for so slight a cause. I wanted to show 
the perfection of your gift, and how well it may 


A PRESENTIMENT, 


277 


serve me. You don’t imagine that our cavalry evolu- 
tions are all performed on straight turnpike roads, 
do you ? Now you know that you have given me an 
animal that can carry me wherever a horse can go, 
and so have added much to my chances of safety. 
I can skim out of a melee like a bird with Mayburn, 
— for that shall be his name, — where a blundering, 
stupid horse would break my neck, if I wasn’t shot. 
I saw at once from his action what he could do. 
Where on earth did you get such a creature T' 

“Well.” said the old lady, beaming with trium- 
phant happiness, “ I have had agents on the look- 
out a long time. The man of whom you had your 
first horse, then called Firebrand, found him ; and 
he knew well that he could not impose any inferior 
animal upon you. Are you really sincere in saying 
that such a horse as this adds to your chances of 
safety ?” 

“ Certainly. That’s what I was trying to show 
you. Did you not see how he would wind in and 
out among the trees and shrubbery, — how he would 
take a fence * lightly without any floundering ? 
There is just as much difference among horses as 
among men. Some are simply awkward, heavy, and 
stupid ; others are vicious ; more are good at times 
and under ordinary circumstances, but fail you at a 
pinch. This horse is thorough-bred and well broken. 
You must have paid a small fortune for him.” 

“ I never invested money that satisfied me 
better.” 

“ ICs like you to say so. Well, take the full 
comf'jrt of thinking how much you have added to 


278 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS, 


my comfort and prospective well-being. That 
gallop has already done me a world of good, and 
given me an appetite. I’ll have another turn across 
the country after breakfast, and throw all evil pre- 
sentiments to the winds.” 

” Why, now you talk sense. When you are in 
any more such moods as this morning I shall pre- 
scribe horse.” 

Before New Year’s day Graham had installed his 
aunt comfortably in rooms adjoining the Hillands’, 
and had thanked his friends for their gift in a way 
that proved it to be appreciated. Mrs. Mayburn had 
been cautioned never to speak of what he now re- 
garded as a foolish and unaccountable presentiment, 
arising, perhaps, from a certain degree of morbid* 
ness of mind in all that related to Grace. Iss was 
on hand to act as groom, and Graham rode out with 
Hilland and Grace several times before his leave ex- 
pired. Even at that day, when the city was full of 
gallant men and fair women, many turned to look as 
the three passed down the avenue. 

Never had Grace looked so radiantly beautiful as 
when in the brilliant sunshine of a Washington 
winter and in the frosty air she galloped over the 
smooth, hard roads. Hilland was proud of the 
almost wondering looks of admiration that every- 
where greeted her, and too much in love to note 
that the ladies they met looked at him in much the 
same way. The best that was said of Graham was 
that he looked a soldier, every inch of him, and 
that he rode the finest horse in the city as if he had 
been brought up in a saddle. He was regarded by 


A PRESENTIMENT. 


279 


society as reserved, unsocial, and proud ; and at two 
or three receptions, to which he went because of the 
solicitation of his friends, he piqued the vanity of 
more than one handsome woman by his courteous 
indifference. 

“ What is the matter with your husband’s 
friend ?” a reigning belle asked Grace. “ One 
might as well try to make an impression on a paving- 
stone.’* 

“ I think your illustration unhappy,” was her 
quiet reply. ” I cannot imagine Mr. Graham at 
any one’s feet.” 

” Not even your own ?” was the malicious retort. 

” Not even my own,” and a flash of anger from 
her dark eyes accompanied her answer. 

Still, wherever he went he awakened interest in 
all natures not dull or sodden. He was felt to he a 
presence. There was a consciousness of power in his 
very attitudes ; and one felt instinctively that he was 
far removed from the commonplace, — that he had 
had a history which made him different from other 
men. 

But before this slight curiosity was kindled to any 
extent, much less satisfied, his leave of absence ex- 
pired ; and with a sense of deep relief he prepared 
to say farewell. His friends expected to see him 
often in the city ; he knew they would see him but 
seldom, if at all. He had made his visit with his 
aunt, and she understood him. His quiet poise was 
departing, and he longed for the stern, fierce excite- 
ment of active service. 

Before he joined his regiment he spent the day 


^ 28 o ms SOMBRE RIVALS, 

with his friends, and took occasion once, when alone 
with Hilland, to make an appeal that was solemn and 
almost passionate in its earnestness, adjuring him 
to remain employed in duties like those which now 
occupied him. But he saw that his efforts were vain. 

“No, Graham, “ was Hilland’s emphatic reply; 
“just as soon as there is danger at the front I 
shall be with my regiment. Now I can do more 
here.” 

With Grace he took a short ride in the morning 
while Hilland was engaged in his duties, and he 
looked at the fair woman by his side with the 
thought that he might never. see her again. It 
almost seemed as if Grace understood him, for 
although the rich color mantled in her cheeks and 
she abounded in smiles and repartee, a look of deep 
sadness rarely left her eyes. 

Once she said abruptly, “ Alford, you will come 
and see us often before the campaign opens ? O, I 
dread this coming campaign. You will come 
often ?“ 

“ I fear not, Grace,” he said, gravely and gently. 
“ I will try to come, but not often.” Then he 
added, with a short, abrupt laugh, “ I wish I could 
break Hilland’s leg.” In answer to a look of sur- 
prise he continued, “ Could not your father procure 
an order that would keep him in the city ? He 
would have to obey orders.” 

“ Ah, I understand you,” and there was a quick 
rush of tears to her eyes. “ It’s of no use. I have 
thought of eveiy^thing, but Warren’s heart is set on 
joining his regiment in the spring.” 


A PRESENTIMENT. 


2S\ 


“ I know it. I have said ali that I could say to 
brother on the subject. ’’ 

“ From the first, Alford, you have tried to make 
the ordeal of this war less painful to me, and how 
well you have succeeded ! You have been our good 
genius. Warren, in his impetuous, chivalrous feel- 
ing, would have gone into it unadvisedly, hastily ; 
and before this might — O, I can’t even think of 
it,” she said with a shudder. “ But years have passed 
since your influence guided him into a wiser and 
more useful course, and think how much of the time 
I have been able to be with him ! And it has all 
been due to you, Alford. But the war seems no 
nearer its end. It rather assumes a larger and more 
threatening aspect. Why do not men think of us 
poor women before they go to war?” 

“ You think, then, that even your influence can- 
not keep him from the field ?” 

“ No, it could not. Indeed, beyond a certain 
point I dare not exert it. I should be dumb before 
questions already asked, ‘ Why should I shrink when 
other husbands do not ? What would be said of me 
here ? what by my comrades in the regiment ? What 
would your brave father think, though he might ac- 
quiesce ? Nay, more, what would my wife think in 
her secret heart ? ’ Alas ! I find I am not made of 
such stern stuff as are some women. Pride and 
military fame could not sustain me if — if — ” 

Do not look on the gloomy side, Grace. Hil- 
land will come out of it all a major-general.” 

“ O, I don’t know, I don’t know. I do know 
that he will often be in desperate danger ; what a 


282 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


dread certainty that is for me ! O, I wish you 
could be always near him ; and yet ’tis a selfish wish, 
for you would not count the cost to yourself.” 

No, Grace ; IVe sworn that on the sword you 
gave me.” 

“I might have known as much.” Then she 
added earnestly, ” Believe me, if you should fall it 
would also imbitter my life.” 

‘‘Yes, you would grieve sincerely; but there 
would be an infinite difference, an infinite differ- 
ence. One question, however, is settled beyond re- 
call. If my life can serve you or Hilland, no power 
shall prevent my giving it. There is nothing more 
to be said : let us speak of something else.” 

‘‘Yes, Alford, , one thing more. Once I mis- 
judged you. Forgive me and she caused her 
horse to spring into a gallop, resolving that no com- 
monplace words should follow closely upon a con- 
versation that had touched the most sacred feelings 
and impulses of each heart. 

For some reason there was a shadow over their 
parting early in the evening, for Graham was to 
ride toward the front with the dawn. Even Hilland’s 
genial spirits could not wholly dissipate it. Graham 
made heroic efforts, but he was oppressed with a 
despondency which was well-nigh overwhelming. 
He felt that he was becoming unmanned, and in 
bitter self-censure resolved to remain with his regi- 
ment until the end came, as he believed would be 
the case with him before the year closed. 

‘‘ Alford, remember your promise. We all may 
need you yet,” were his aunt's last words in the 
gray of the morning. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


AN IMPROVISED PICTURE GALLERY. 

M uch to Graham’s satisfaction, his regiment, 
soon after he joined it, was ordered into 
the Shenandoah valley, and given some rough, 
dangerous picket duty that fully accorded with his 
mood. Even Hilland could not expect a visit from 
him now ; and he explained to his friend that the 
other officers were taking their leaves of absence, and 
he, in turn, must perform their duties. And so the 
winter passed uneventfully away in a cheerful in- 
terchange of letters. Graham found that the front 
agreed with him better than Washington, and that 
his pulse resumed its former even beat. A dash at 
a Confederate picket post on a stormy night was far 
more tranquillizing than an evening in Hilland’s 
luxurious rooms. 

With the opening of the spring campaign Hilland 
joined his regiment, and was eager to remove by 
his courage and activity the slightest impression, if 
any existed, that he was disposed to shun dangerous 
service. There was no such impression, however ; 
and he was most cordially welcomed, for he was a 
great favorite with both officers and men. 


284 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


During the weeks that followed, the cavalry was 
called upon to do heavy work and severe fighting ; 
and the two friends became more conspicuous than 
ever for their gallantry. They seemed, however, 
to bear charmed lives, for, while many fell or were 
wounded, they escaped unharmed. 

At last the terrific and decisive campaign of 
Gettysburg opened ; and from the war-wasted and 
guerilla-infested regions of Virginia the Northern 
troops found themselves marching through the 
friendly and populous North. As the cavalry 
brigade entered a thriving village in Pennsylvania 
the people turned out almost en masse and gave them 
more than an ovation. The troopers were tired, 
hungry, and thirsty ; and, since from every doorway 
was offered a boundless hospitality, the column came 
to a halt. The scene soon developed into a pic- 
turesque military picnic. Young maids and ven- 
erable matrons, gray-bearded fathers, shy, blush- 
ing girls, and eager-eyed children, all vied with each 
other in pressing upon their defenders every delicacy 
and substantial viand that their town could furnish 
at the moment. A pretty miss of sixteen, with a 
peach-like bloom in her cheeks, might be seen flit- 
ting here and there among the bearded troopers 
with a tray bearing goblets of milk. When they 
were emptied she would fly back and lift up white 
arms to her mother for more, and the almost equally 
blooming matron, smiling from the window, would 
fill the glasses again to the brim. The magnates of 
the village with their wives were foremost in ‘the 
work, and were passing to and fro with great baskets 


AI\r IMPROVISED PICTURE GALLERY. 285 

of sandwiches, while stalwart men and boys were 
bringing from neighboring wells and pumps cool, 
delicious water for the horses. How immensely the 
troopers enjoyed it all ! No scowling faces and cold 
looks here. All up and down the street, holding 
bridle-reins over their arms or leaning against the 
flanks of their horses, they feasted as they had not 
done since their last Thanksgiving Day at home. 
Such generous cups of coffee, enriched with cream 
almost too thick to flow from the capacious pitchers, 
and sweetened not only with snow-white sugar, but 
also with the smiles of some gracious woman, per- 
haps motherly in appearance, perhaps so fair and 
young that hearts beat faster under the weather- 
stained cavalry jackets. 

“ How pretty it all is said a familiar voice to 
Graham, as he was dividing a huge piece of cake with 
his pet Mayburn ; and Hilland laid his hand on his 
friend’s shoulder. 

“ Ah, Hilland, seeing you is the best part of this 
banquet a la militaire. Yes, it is a heavenly change 
after the dreary land we’ve been marching and fight- 
ing in. It makes me feel that I have a country, and 
that it’s worth all it may cost.” 

” Look, Graham, — look at that little fairy creature 
in white muslin, talking to that great bearded pard 
of a sergeant. Isn’t that a picture ? O, I wish 
Grace, with her eye for picturesque effects, could 
look upon this scene.” 

” Nonsense, Hilland ! as if she would look at 
anybody or anything but you ! See that white- 
haired old woman leading that exquisite little girl to 


286 


niS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


yonder group of soldiers. See how they doff their 
hats to her. There’s another picture for you.” 

Hilland’s magnificent appearance soon attracted 
half a dozen village belles about him, each offering 
some dainty ; and one — a black-eyed witch a little- 
bolder than the others — offered to fasten a rose from 
her hair in his button-hole. 

He entered into the spirit of the occasion with all 
the zest of his old student days, professed to be 
delighted with the favor as she stood on tiptoe to 
reach the lappet of his coat ; and then he stooped 
down and pressed his lips to the fragrant petals, 
assuring the blushing little coquette, meanwhile, that 
it was the next best thing to her own red lips. 

How vividly in after years Graham would recall 
him, as he stood there, his handsome head thrown 
back, looking the ideal of an old Norse viking, 
laughing and chatting with the merry, innocent girls 
around him, his deep-blue eyes emitting mirthful 
gleams on every side ! According to his nature, 
Graham drew off to one side and watched the scene 
with a smile, as he had viewed similar ones far back 
in the years, and faraway in Germany. He saw the 
ripples of laughter that his friend’s words provoked, 
and recognized the old, easy grace, the light, French- 
like wit, that was wholly free from the French double 
entendre^ and he thought, “ Would that Grace could 
see him now, and she would fall in love with him 
anew, for her nature is too large for petty jealousy 
at a scene like that. O Hilland, you and the group 
around you make the finest picture of this long im- 
provised gallery of pictures.” 


AJV IMPROVISED PICTURE GALLERY. 287 

Suddenly there was a loud report of a cannon 
from a hill above the village, and a shell shrieked 
over their heads. Hilland’s laughing aspect changed 
instantly. He seemed almost to gather the young 
girls in his arms as he hurried them into the nearest 
doorway, and then with a bound reached Graham, 
who held his horse, vaulted into the saddle, and 
dashed up the street to his men who were standing 
in line. 

Graham sprang lightly on his horse, for in the 
scenes resulting from the kaleidoscopic change that 
had taken place he would be more at home. 

“ Mount !” he shouted ; and the order, repeated up 
and down the street, changed the jolly, feasting 
troopers of a moment since into veterans who would 
sit like equestrian statues, if so commanded, though 
a hundred guns thundered against them. 

From the farther end of the village came the wild 
yell characteristic of the cavalry charges of the Con- 
federates, while shell after shell shrieked and ex- 
ploded where had just been unaffected gayety and 
hospitality. 

The first shot had cleared the street of all except 
the Union soldiers ; and those who dared to peep 
from window or door saw, with dismay, that the 
defenders whom they had so honored and welcomed 
were retreating at a gallop from the Rebel charge. 

They were soon undeceived, however, for at a 
gallop the national cavalry dashed into an open field 
near by, formed with the precision of machinery, 
and by the time that the Rebel charge had well-nigh 
spent itself in the sabring or capture of a few tardy 


288 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


troopers, Hilland with platoon after platoon was 
emerging upon the street again at a sharp trot, which 
soon developed into a furious gallop as he dashed 
against their assailants ; and the pretty little co- 
quette, bold not only in love but in war, saw from a 
window her ideal knight with her red rose upon his 
breast leading a charge whose thunder caused the 
very earth to tremble ; and she clapped her hands 
and cheered so loudly as he approached that he 
looked up, saw her, and for an instant a sunny smile 
passed over the visage that had become so stern. 
Then came the shock of battle. 

Graham’s company was held in reserve, but for 
some reason his horse seemed to grow unmanageable ; 
and sabres had scarcely clashed before he, with the 
blade on which was engraved “ Grace Hilland,” was 
at her husband’s side, striking blows which none 
could resist. The enemy could not stand the furious 
onset, and gave way slowly, sullenly, and at last 
precipitately. The tide of battle swept beyond and 
away from the village ; and its street became quiet 
again, except for the groans of the wounded. 

Mangled horses, mangled men, some dead, some 
dying, and others almost rejoicing in wounds that 
would secure for them such gentle nurses, strewed 
the street that had been the scene of merry fes- 
tivity. 

The pretty little belle never saw her tawny, 
bearded knight again. She undoubtedly married 
and tormented some well-to-do dry-goods clerk ; but 
a vision of a man of heroic mould, with a red rose 
upon his breast, smiling up to her just as he was 


AN IMPIiOVISED PICTURE GALLERY. 289 

about to face what might be death, will thrill her 
feminine soul until she is old and gray. 

That night Graham and Hilland talked and 
laughed over the whole affair as they sat by a camp- 
fire. 

“ It has all turned out as usual,” said Graham, 
ruefully. ” You won a victory and no end of glory ; 
I a reprimand from my colonel. ” 

” If you have received nothing worse than a rep- 
rimand you are fortunate,” was Hilland 's response. 
” The idea of any horse becoming unmanageable in 
your hands ! The colonel understands the case as 
well as I do, and knows that it was your own raven- 
ous appetite for a fight that became unmanageable. 
But I told him of the good service you rendered, and 
gave him the wink to wink also. You were fearfully 
rash to-day, Graham. You were not content to 
fight at my side, but more than once were between 
me and the enemy. What the devil makes you so 
headlong in a fight, — you that are usually so cool 
and self-controlled ?” 

Graham’s hand rested on a fair woman’s name en- 
graved upon his sword, but he replied lightly, 
” When you teach me caution in a fight I’ll 
learn.” 

” Well, excuse me, old fellow, I’m going to write 
to Grace. May not have a chance very soon again. 
I say, Graham, we’ll have the battle of the war in a 
day or two.” 

” I know it,” was the quiet response. 

” And we must win, too,” Hilland continued, 
” or the Johnnies will help themselves to Washing- 


290 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


ton, Baltimore, Philadelphia, and perhaps New 
York. Every man should nerve himself to do the 
work of two. As I was saying, I shall write to 
Grace that your horse ran away with you and became 
uncontrollable until you were directly in front of me, 
when you seemed to manage him admirably, and 
struck blows worthy of the old French duellist who 
killed a man every morning before breakfast. I 
think she’ll understand your sudden and amazingly 
poor horsemanship as well as I do.” 

She did, and far better. 

Hilland’s prediction proved true. The decisive 
battle of Gettysburg was fought, and its bloody field 
marked the highest point reached by the crimson 
tide of the Rebellion. From Cemetery Ridge it 
ebbed slowly and sullenly away to the south. 

The brigade in which were the friends passed 
through another fearful baptism of fire in the main 
conflict and the pursuit which followed, and were in 
Virginia again, but with ranks almost decimated. 
Graham and Hilland still seemed to bear charmed 
lives, and in the brief pause in operations that fol- 
lowed, wrote cheerful letters to those so dear, now 
again at their sea-side resort. Grace, who for days 
had been so pale, and in whose dark eyes lurked an 
ever-present dread of which she could not speak, 
smiled again. Her husband wrote in exuberant 
spirits over the victory, and signed himself ” Lieu- 
tenant-Colonel.” Graham in his letter said jestingly 
to his aunt that ‘he had at last attained his ” ma- 
iority,” and that she might therefore look for a little 
more discretion on his part. 


AN IMPROVISED PICTURE GALLERY, 291 

“ How the boys are coming on !" exulted the 
old major. “ They will both wear the stars yet. 
But confound it all, why did Meade let Lee escape ? 
He might have finished the whole thing up.” 

Alas ! the immeasurable price of liberty was not 
yet paid. 

One morning Hilland’s and Graham’s regiments 
were ordered out orf what was deemed but a minor 
reconnoissance ; and the friends, rested and strong, 
started in high spirits with their sadly shrunken 
forces. But they knew that the remaining hand- 
fuls were worth more than full ranks of untrained, 
unseasoned men. All grow callous, if not indiffer- 
ent, to the vicissitudes of war ; and while they 
missed regretfully many familiar faces, the thought 
that they had rendered the enemy’s lines more 
meagre was consoling. 

Graham and Hilland rode much of the long day 
together. They went over all the past, and dwelt 
upon the fact that their lives had been so different 
from what they had planned. 

” By the way, Graham,” said Hilland, abruptly, 

it seems strange to me that you are so indifferent 
to women. Don’t you expect ever to marry?” 

Graham burst into a laugh as he replied, ” I 
thought we had that subject out years ago, under the 
apple-tree, — that night, you remember, when you 
talked like a school-girl till morning — ” 

” And you analyzed and philosophized till long 
after midnight — ” 

” Well, you knew then that Grace had spoiled 
me for every one else ; and she’s been improving ever 


292 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


since. When I find her equal I’ll marry her, if I 
can.” 

” Poor, forlorn old bachelor that you are, and 
ever will be!” cried Hilland. “You’ll never find 
the equal of Grace Hilland.” 

“ I think I shall survive, Hilland. My appetite 
is good. As I live, there are some Confederates in 
yonder clump of trees and* he put spurs to his 
horse on a little private reconnaissance. The few 
horsemen vanished, in the thick woods beyond, the 
moment they saw that they were perceived ; and 
they were regarded as prowling guerillas only. 

That night they bivouacked in a grove where two 
roads intersected, threw out pickets and patrols, and 
kindled their fires, for they did not expect to strike 
the enemy in force till some time on the following 
day. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


A DREAM, 


RAHAM and his friend had bidden each other 



VJT an early and cordial good-night, for the entire 
force under the command of Hilland's colonel was 
to resume its march with the dawn. Although no 
immediate danger was apprehended, caution had 
been learned by long experience. The detachment 
/ was comparatively small, and it was far removed from 
any support ; and while no hints of the presence of 
tBe enemy in formidable numbers had been obtained 
during the day, what was beyond them could not be 
known with any certainty. Therefore the horses had 
been carefully rubbed down, and the saddles re- 
placed. In many instances the bridles also had been 
put on again, with the bit merely slipped from the 
mouth. In all cases they lay or hung within reach 
of the tired troopers, who, one after another, were 
dropping off into the cat-like slumber of a cavalry 
outpost. 

As the fires died down, the shadows in the grove grew 
deeper and more obscure, and all was quiet, except 
when the hours came round for the relief of pickets 
and the men who were patrolling the roads. Graham 


«94 


ms SOMBRE RIVALS. 


remembered the evanescent group of Confederates 
toward whom he had spurred during the day. He 
knew that they were in a hostile region, and that their 
movements must be already well known to the 
enemy, if strong in their vicinity. Therefore all his 
instincts as a soldier were on the alert. It so hap- 
pened that he was second in command of his regi- 
ment on this occasion, and he felt the responsibility. 
He had been his own groom on their arrival at the 
grove, and his faithful charger, Mayburn, now stood 
saddled and bridled by his side, as he reclined, 
half dozing, again thinking deeply, by the low, flick- 
ering blaze of his fire. He had almost wholly lost 
the gloomy presentiments that had oppressed him at 
the beginning of the year. Both he and Hilland had 
passed through so many dangers that a sense of 
security was begotten. Still more potent had been 
the influence of his active out-of-door life. His 
nerves were braced, while his soldier's routine and the 
strong excitement of the campaign had become a 
preoccupying habit. 

^ Only those who brood in idleness over ‘ the mis- 
fortunes and disappointments of life are destroyed 
by them. 

He had not seen Grace for over half a year ; and 
while she was and ever would be his fair ideal, he 
could now think of her with the quietude akin to that 
of the devout Catholic who worships a saint removed 
from him at a heavenly distance. The wisdom of 
this remoteness became more and more clear to him ; 
for despite every power that he could put forth as a 
man, there was a deeper, stronger manhood within 


A DREAM. 


295 


him which acknowledged this woman as sovereign. 
He foresaw that his lot would be one of comparative 
exile, and he accepted it with a calm and inflexible 
resolution. 

Hearing a step he started up hastily, and saw 
Hilland approaching from the opposite side of his 
fire. 

“ Ah, Graham, glad you are not asleep,” said his 
friend, throwing himself down on the leaves, with his 
head resting on his hands. ” Put a little wood on 
the firej please ; I’m chilly in the night air, and the 
dews are so confoundedly heavy.” 

” Why, Hilland, what’s the matter?” Graham 
asked, as he complied. “You are an ideal cavalry 
man at a nap, and can sleep soundly with one eye 
open. It has seemed to me that you never lost a 
wink when there was a chance for it, even under 
fire.” 

“ Why are you not sleeping?” 

“ O, I have been, after my fashion, dozing and 
thinking by turns. I always was an owl, you know. 
Moreover, I think it behooves us to be on the alert. 
We are a good way from support if hard pressed ; 
and the enemy must be in force somewhere to the 
west of us.” 

“ I’ve thought as much myself. My horse is 
ready as yours is, and I left an orderly holding him. 
I suppose you will laugh at me, but I’ve had a 
cursed dream ; and it has shaken me in spite of 
my reason. After all, how often our reason fails us 
at a pinch ! I wish it was morning and we were on 
the road. I’ve half a mind to go out with the 


296 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


patrols and get my blood in circulation. I would, 
were it not that I feel I should be with my men.” 

“ Where’s your colonel ?” 

“ The old war-dog is sleeping like a top. Noth- 
ing ever disturbs him, much less a dream. I say, 
Graham, I made a good selection in him, didn’t I ?” 

“ Yes, but he’ll be promoted soon, and you will be 
in command. What’s more, I expect to see a star 
OKS. your shoulder in less than six months.” 

” As I feel to-night, I don’t care a picayune for 
stars or anything else relating to the cursed war. 
I’d give my fortune to be able to kiss Grace and tell 
her I’m well.” 

“You are morbid, Hilland. You will feel differ- 
ently to-morrow, especially if there’s a chance for a 
charge. 

“ No doubt, no doubt. The shadow of this con- 
founded grove seems as black as death, and it op- 
presses me. Why should I, without apparent cause, 
have had such a dream ?” 

“ Your supper and fatigue may have been the 
cause. If you don’t mind, tell me this grisly vision. ” 

“ While you laugh at me as an old woman, — you, 
in whom reason ever sits serene and dispassionate 
on her throne, except when you get into a fight. 

“ My reason’s throne is often as rickety as a two- 
legged stool. No, I won’t laugh at you. There’s 
not a braver man in the service than you. If you 
feel as you say, there’s some cause for it ; and yet so 
complex is our organism that both cause and effect 
may not be worthy of very grave consideration, as I 
have hinted.” 


A DREAM. 


297 


“ Think what you please, this was my dream. 1 
had made my dispositions for the night, and went to 
sleep as a matter of course. I had not slept an hour by 
my watch — I looked at it afterward — when I seemed 
to hear some one moaning and crying, and I thought 
I started up wide awake, and I saw the old library at 
home, — the room you know so well. Every article 
of furniture was before me more distinctly than I 
can see any object now, and on the rug before the 
open fire Grace was crouching, while she moaned and 
wrung her hands and cried as if her heart was break- 
ing. She was dressed in black, — O, how white her 
hands and neck and face appeared against that 
mournful black ! — and, strangest of all, her hair fell 
around her snowy white, like a silver veil. I started 
forward to clasp her in my arms, and then truly 
awoke, for there was nothing before me but my 
drooping horse, a few red coals of my expiring 
fire, and over all the black, black shadow of this 
accursed grove. O for sunlight ! O for a gale of 
wind, that I might breathe freely again!” and the 
powerful man sprang to his feet and threw open 
his coat at his breast. 

As he ceased speaking, the silence and darkness of 
the grove did seem ominous and oppressive, and 
Graham’s old wretched presentiment of Christmas 
morning returned, but he strove with all the ingenuity 
in his power to reason his friend out of his morbid 
mood, as he termed it. He kindled his fire into a 
cheerful blaze, and Hilland cowered and shivered 
over it ; then looking up abruptly, he said, 
“ Graham, you and I accepted the belief long ago 


298 HIS SOMBRE RIVALS, 

that man was only highly organized matter. I must 
admit to you that my mind has often revolted at 
this belief ; and the thought that Grace was merely 
of the earth has always seemed to me sacrilegious. 
She never was what you would call a religious girl ; 
but she once had a quiet, simple faith in a God and 
a hereafter, and she expected to see her mother 
again. I fear that our views have troubled her ex- 
ceedingly ; although with that rare reserve in a 
woman, she never interfered with one’s strong per- 
sonal convictions. The shallow woman tries to set 
everybody right with the weighty reason, ‘ O, be- 
cause it is so ; all good people say it is so. ’ I fear 
our views have unsettled hers also. I wish they had 
not ; indeed I wish I could believe somewhat as she 
did. 

“ Once, only once, she spoke to me with a strange 
bitterness, but it revealed the workings of her mind. 
I, perhaps, was showing a little too much eagerness 
in my spirit and preparation for active service, and 
she broke out abruptly, ‘ O, yes, you and Alford 
can rush into scenes of carnage very complacently. 
You believe that if the bullet is only sure enough, 
your troubles are over forever, as Alford once said. 
I suppose you are right, for you learned men have 
studied into things as we poor women never can. If 
it’s true, those who love as we do should die to- 
gether.’ It has often seemed that her very love — 
nay, that mine-— was an argument against our be- 
lief. That a feeling so pure, vivid, and unselfish, so 
devoid of mere earthiness, — a feeling that apparently 
contains within itself the very essence of immortality, 


A DREAM. 


299 


' — can be instantly blotted out as a flame is extin- 
guished, has become a terrible thought. Grace Hil- 
land is worthy of an immortal life, and she has all 
the capacity for it. It’s not her lovely form and face 
that I love so much as the lovely something — call it 
soul, spirit, or what you choose — that will maintain 
her charm through all the changes from youth to 
feeble and withered age. How can I be sure that 
the same gentle, womanly spirit may not exist after 
the final change we call death, and that to those 
worthy of immortal life the boon is not given ? Rea- 
son is a grand thing, and I know we once thought we 
settled this question ; but reason fails me to-night, or 
else love and the intense longings of the heart teach 
a truer and deeper philosophy — 

“ You are silent, Graham. You think me morbid, 
— that wishes are fathers of my thoughts. Well, I’m 
not. I honestly don’t know what the truth is. I only 
wish to-night that I had the simple belief in a re- 
union with Grace which she had with regard to her 
mother. I fear we have unsettled her faith ; not that 
we ever urged our views,— indeed we have scarcely 
ever spoken of them, — but there has been before her 
the ^ver-present and silent force of example. It was 
natural for her to believe that those were right in 
whom she most believed and I’m not sure we are 
right, — I’m not sure. I’ve not been sure for a long 
time.” 

” My dear Warren, you are not well. Exposure 
to all sorts of weather in this malarial country is tell- 
ing on you ; and I fear your feelings to-night are the 
prelude of a fever. You shall stay and sleep by my 


300 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


fire, and if I hear the slightest suspicious sound I 
will waken you. You need not hesitate, for I in- 
tend to watch till morning, whether you stay or 
not.” 

” Well, Graham, I will. I wish to get through this 
horrible night in the quickest way possible. But I’ll 
first go and bring my horse here, so the poor orderly 
can have a nap.” 

He soon returned and lay down close to the genial 
fire, and Graham threw over him his own blankets. 

” What a good, honest friend you are, Graham ! — 
too honest even to say some hollow words favoring 
my doubts of my doubt and unbelief. If it hadn’t 
been for you, I should have been dead long ago. In 
my blind confidence, I should have rushed into the 
war, and probably should have been knocked on the 
head at Bull Run. How many happy months I’ve 
passed with Grace since then ! — how many since you 
virtually gave your life for me last autumn ! You 
made sure that I took a man’s, not a fool's, part in the 
war. 0, Grace and I know it all and appreciate 
it ; and — and — Alford, if I should fall, I commend 
Grace to your care.” 

” Hilland, stop, or you will unman me. This^ac- 
cursed grove is haunted I half believe ; and were I 
in command I would ordqr ‘ Boots and Saddles ’ to 
be sounded at once. There, sleep, Warren, and in 
the morning you will be your own grand self. Why 
speak of anything I could do for you and Grace ? 
How could I serve myself in any surer way ? As 
school-girls say, ‘ I won’t speak to you again.’ I’m 
going to pi^wl around a little, and sec that all is 


A DREAM. 


301 


right and he disappeared among the shadowy 
boles of the trees. 

When he returned from his rounds his friend was 
sleeping, but uneasily, with sudden fits and starts. 

“ He is surely going to have a fever, ’ ’ Graham mut- 
tered. “I’d give a year’s pay if we were safe back 
in camp.’’ He stood before the fire with folded 
arms, watching his boyhood’s friend, his gigantic 
shadow stretching away into the obscurity as un- 
waveringly as those of the tree-trunks around him. 
His lips were compressed. He sought to make his 
will as inflexible as his form. He would not think 
of Grace, of danger to her and Hilland ; and yet, by 
some horrible necromancy of the hour and place, 
the scene in Hilland’s dream would rise before him 
with a vividness that was overawing. In the sigh- 
ing of the wind through the foliage, he seemed to 
hear the poor wife’s moans. 

“O,” he muttered, “would that I could die a 
thousand deaths to prevent a scene like that !’’ 

When would the interminable night pass? At 
last he looked at his watch and saw that the dawn 
could not be far distant. How still everything had 
become ! The men were in their deepest slumber. 
Even the wind had died out, and the silence was to 
his overwrought mind like the hush of expectancy. 

This silence was at last broken by a shot on the 
road leading to the west. Other shots followed in 
quick succession. 

Hilland was on his feet instantly. “ We’re at- 
tacked,” he shouted, and was about to spring upon 
his horse when Graham grasped his hand in both of 


302 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


his as he said, “ In the name of Grace Hilland, be 
prudent.” 

Then both the men were in the saddle, Hilland 
dashing toward his own command, and each shout- 
ing, ” Awake ! Mount !” 

At the same instant the bugle from headquarters 
rang through the grove, giving the well-known 
order of ” Boots and Saddles.” 

In place of the profound stillness of a moment be- 
fore, there were a thousand discordant sounds, — the 
trampling of feet, the jingling of sabres, the champ- 
ing of bits by aroused, restless horses that understood 
the bugle call as well as the men, hoarse, rapid 
orders of officers, above all which in the distance 
could be heard Hilland's clarion voice. 

Again and again from headquarters the brief, 
musical strains of the bugle echoed through the 
gloom, each one giving to the veterans a definite 
command. Within four minutes there was a line of 
battle on the western edge of the grove, and a 
charging column was in the road leading to the west, 
down which the patrols were galloping at a headlong 
pace. Pickets were rushing in, firing as they came. 
To the uninitiated it might have seemed a scene of 
dire confusion. In fact, it was one of perfect order 
and discipline. Even in the darkness each man 
knew just what to do and where to go, as he heard 
the bugle calls and the stern, brief, supplementary 
orders of the officers. 

Graham found himself on the line of battle at the 
right of the road, and the sound that followed close 
upon the sharp gallop of the ^ patrol was ominous in- 


A DREAM. 


303 


deed. It was the rushing, thunderous sound of a 
heavy body of cavalry, — too heavy, his ear soon fore- 
told him, to promise equal battle. 

The experienced colonel recognized the fact at 
the same moment, and would not leave his men in 
the road to meet the furious onset. Again, sharp, 
quick, and decisive as the vocal order had been, the 
bugle rang out the command for a change of posi- 
tion. Its strains had not ceased when the officers 
were repeating the order all down the column that 
had been formed in the road for a charge, and 
scarcely a moment elapsed before the western pike 
was clear, and faced by a line of battle a little back 
among the trees. The Union force would now ask 
nothing better than that the enemy should charge 
down that road within point-blank range. 

If the Nationals were veterans they were also deal- 
ing with veterans who.v^ere masters of the situation 
in their overwhelming force and their knowledge of 
the comparative insignificance of their opponents, 
whose numbers had been quite accurately estimated 
the day before. 

The patrols were already within the Union lines and 
at their proper places when the Confederate column 
emerged into the narrow open space before the 
grove. Its advance had subsided into a sharp trot ; 
but, instead of charging by column or platoon, the 
enemy deployed to right and left with incredible 
swiftness. Men dismounted and formed into line 
almost instantly, their gray forms looking phantom- 
like in the gray dawn that tinged the east. 

The vigilant coloi^l was as prompt as they, and 


304 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


at the first evidence of their tactics the bugle re- 
sounded, and the line of battle facing the road which 
led westward wheeled at a gallop through the open 
trees and formed at right angles with the road behind 
the first line of battle. Again there was a bugle call. 
The men in both lines dismounted instantly, and as 
their horses were being led to the rear by those 
designated for the duty, a Union volley was poured 
into the Confederate line that had scarcely formed, 
causing many a gap. Then the -first Union line 
retired behind the second, loading as they went, and, 
with the ready instinct of old fighters, putting trees 
between themselves and the swiftly advancing foe 
while forming a third line of battle. From the 
second Union line a deadly volley blazed in the dim 
obscurity of the woods. It had no perceptible effect 
in checking the impetuous onset of the enemy, who 
merely returned the fire a^hey advanced. 

The veteran colonel, with cool alertness, saw that 
he was far outnumbered, and that his, assailants' 
tactics were to drive him through the grove into the 
open fields, where his command would be speedily 
dispersed and captured. His only chance was to run 
for it and get the start. Indeed the object of his 
reconnaissance seemed already accomplished, for the 
enemy was found to be in force in that direction. 
Therefore, as he galloped to the rear his bugler 
sounded “ Retreat” long and shrilly. 

The dim Union lines under the trees melted away 
as by magic, and a moment later there was a rush 
of horses through the underbrush that fringed the 
eastern side of the grove. But some men were shot, 


A DREAM. 


305 

some sabred, and others captured before they could 
mount and extricate themselves. The majority, 
however, of the Union forces were galloping swiftly 
away, scattering at first rather than keeping together, 
in order to distract the pursuit which for a time was 
sharp and deadly. Not a few succumbed ; others 
would turn on their nearest pursuer in mortal com- 
bat, which was soon decided in one way or the 
other. Graham more than once wheeled and con- 
fronted an isolated foe, and the sword bearing the 
name of the gentle Grace Hilland was bloody in- 
deed. 

All the while his eye was ranging the field for 
Hilland, and with his fleet steed, that could soon 
have carried him beyond all danger, he diverged to 
right and left, as far as their headlong retreat per- 
mitted, in his vain search for his friend. 

Suddenly the bugle from the Confederate side 
sounded a recall. The enemy halted, fired parting 
shots, and retired briskly over the field, gathering 
up the wounded and the prisoners. The Union 
forces drew together on a distant eminence, from 
which the bugler of the colonel in command was 
blowing a lively call to rendezvous. 

“ Where’s Hilland?” cried Graham, dashing up. 

The colonel removed a cigar from his mouth and 
said, ” Haven’t seen him since I ordered the retreat. 
Don’t worry. He’ll be here soon. Hilland is' sure 
to come out all right. It’s a way he has. ’Twas 
a rather rapid change of base. Major Graham. 
That the enemy should have ceased their pursuit 
so abruptly puzzles me. Ah, here comes your 


3o6 his sombre rivals. 

colonel, and when Hilland puts in an appearance we 
must hold a brief council, although I suppose there 
is nothing left for us but to make our way back to 
camp and report as speedily as possible. I’d like to 
come back with a division, and turn the tables on 
those fellows. I believe we fought a divis — ” 

“Hilland!” shouted Graham, in a voice that 
drowned the colonel’s words, and echoed far and 
wide. 

There was no answer, and the fugitives were 
nearly all in. 

Graham galloped oiit beyond the last lagging 
trooper, and with a cry that smote the hearts of 
those that heard it he shouted, “ Hilland !” and 
strained his eyes in every direction. There was no 
response, — no form in view that resembled his friend. 

At wild speed he returned and rode among Hil- 
land ’s command. His^^manner was so desperate 
that he drew all eyes upon him, and none seemed 
able or willing to answer. At last a man said, 
“ I heard his voice just as we were breaking from 
that cursed grove, and I’ve seen or heard nothing of 
him since. I supposed he was on ahead with the 
colonel and that was all the information that could 
be obtained. 

The men looked very downcast, for Hilland was 
almost idolized by them. Graham saw that there 
was an eager quest of information among them- 
selves, and he waited with feverish impatience for 
further light ; but nothing could be elicited from 
officers or privates beyond the fact that Hilland 
had been bravely doing his duty up to the moment 


A DREAM. 


307 


when, as one of the captains said, “ It was a 
scramble, ‘ each man for himself, and the devil take 
the hindmost.’ ” 

As long as there had been a gleam of hope that 
Hilland had escaped with the rest, Graham had been 
almost beside himself in his feverish impatience. 

He now rode to where the two colonels were stand- 
ing, and the senior began rapidly, “ Major Graham, 
we sympathize with you deeply. We all, and in- 
deed the army, have sustained a severe loss in even 
the temporary absence of Lieutenant-Colonel Hil- 
land ; for I will not believe that worse has happened 
than a wound and brief captivity. The enemy has 
acted peculiarly. I have fears that they may be 
flanking us and trying to intercept us on some 
parallel road. Therefore I shall order that we 
return to camp in the quickest possible time. Good 
God, Graham ! don’t take it so to heart. You’ve no 
proof that Hilland is dead. You look desperate, 
man. Come, remember that you are a soldier and 
that Hilland was one too. We’ve had to discount 
such experiences from the start.” 

” Gentlemen,” said Graham, in a low, concen- 
trated voice, and touching his hat to the two 
colonels, ” I am under the command of you both, — 
one as my superior officer, the other as leader of the 
expedition. I ask permission to return in search of 
my friend.” 

” I forbid it,” they both cried simultaneously, 
while the senior officer continued, ” Graham, you 
are beside yourself. It would be almost suicide to 
go back. It would certainly result in your capture. 


3o8 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


while there is not one chance in a thousand that you 
could do Hilland any good/' 

Graham made no immediate reply, but was 
studying the ill-omened grove with his glass. 
After a moment he said, “ I do not think there 
will be any further pursuit. The enemy are retir- 
ing from the grove. My explanation of their con- 
duct is this : There is some large decisive move- 
ment in progress, and we were merely brushed 
out of the way that we might learn nothing of 
it. My advice is that we retain this command- 
ing position, throw out scouts on every side, 
and I doubt whether we find anything beyond a 
small rear-guard in ten miles of us within a few 
hours. ’ ' 

“ Your anxiety for your friend warps your judg- 
ment, and it is contrary to my instructions, which 
were simply to learn if there was any considerable 
force of the enemy in this region. Your explanation 
of the enemy's conduct is plausible, and has already 
occurred to me as a possibility. If it be the true ex- 
planation, all the more reason that we should return 
promptly and report what we know and what we 
surmise. I shall therefore order ‘ Retreat’ to be 
sounded at once.” 

” And I, Major Graham,” said his own colonel, 
” must add, that while you have my sympathy, I 
nevertheless order you to your place in the march. 
Rather than permit you to carry out your mad 
project, I would place you under arrest.” 

*‘ Gentlemen, I cannot complain of your course, or 
criticise your military action. You are in a better 


A DREAM. 


309 


condition of mind to judge what is wise than ; and 
under ordinary circumstances I would submit with- 
out a word. But the circumstances are extraordi- 
nary. Hilland has been my friend since boyhood. 
I will not remain in suspense as to his fate ; much 
less will I leave his wife and friends in suspense. I 
know that disobedience of orders in the face of the 
enemy is one of the gravest offences, but I must 
disobey them, be the consequences what they may.” 

As he wheeled his horse, his colonel cried, “ Stop 
him. He’s under arrest !” But Mayburn, feelingthe 
touch of the spur, sprang into his fleet gallop, and 
they might as well have pursued a bird. 

They saw this at once, and the colonel in com- 
mand only growled, “ this reconnaissance. Here 

we’ve lost two of the finest officers in the brigade, 
as well as some of our best men. Sound ‘ Retreat.’ ” 

There was a hesitancy, and a wild impulse among 
Hilland’s men to follow Graham to the rescue, but 
it was sternly repressed by their officers, and the 
whole command was within a few moments on a 
sharp trot toward camp. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

ITS FULFILMENT. 

RAH AM soon slackened his pace when he 



found that he was not pursued, and as his 
friends disappeared he returned warily to the brow 
of the eminence and watched their rapid march away 
from the ill-fated locality. He rode over the brow 
of the hill as if he was following, for he had little 
doubt that the movements of the Union force 
were watched. Having tied his horse where he 
could not be seen from the grove, he crept back be- 
hind a sheltering bush, and with his glass scanned 
the scene of conflict. In the road leading through 
the grove there were ambulances removing the 
wounded. At last these disappeared, and there was 
not a living object in sight. He watched a little 
longer, and buzzards began to wheel over and settle 
upon the battle-ground, — sure evidence that for the 
time it was deserted. 

He hesitated no longer. Mounting his horse he 
continued down the hill so as to be screened from 
any possible observers, then struck off to his left to 
a belt of woods that extended well up to the vicinity 
of the grove. Making his way through this bit of 


ITS FULFILMENT. 


3 ” 


forest, he soon came to an old wood-road partially 
grown up with bushes, and pushed his way rapidly 
back toward the point he wished to attain. Having 
approached the limits of the belt of woods, he tied 
his horse in a thicket, listened, then stole to the 
edge nearest the grove. It appeared deserted. 
Crouching along a rail fence with revolver in hand, 
he at last reached its fatal shade, and pushing 
through its fringe of lower growth, peered cautiously 
around. Here and there he saw a lifeless body or 
a struggling, wounded horse, over which the buz- 
zards hovered, or on which they had already settled. 
Disgusting as was their presence, they reassured him, 
and he boldly and yet with an awful dread at heart 
began his search, scanning with rapid eye each pros- 
trate form along the entire back edge of the grove 
through which the Union forces had burst in their 
swift retreat. 

He soon passed beyond all traces of conflict, and 
then retraced his steps, uttering half-unconsciously 
and in a tone of anguish his friend’s name. As he 
approached what had been the extreme right of the 
Union line in their retreat, and their left in the ad- 
vance, he beheld a dead horse that looked familiar. 
He sprang forward and saw that it was Hilland’s. 

“ Hilland ! Warren !” he shouted, wild with 
awful foreboding. 

From a dense thicket near he heard a feeble 
groan. Rushing into it he stumbled against the 
immense mossy trunk of a prostrate, decaying tree. 
Concealed beyond it lay his friend, apparently dying. 

“ O Warren !” he cried, “ my friend, my 


312 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


brother, don't you know me ? O, live, live ! I 
can rescue you." 

There was no response from the slowly gasping 
man. 

Graham snatched a flask from his pocket and wet 
the pallid lips with brandy, and then caused Hilland 
to swallow a little. The stimulant kindled for a few 
moments the flame of life, and the dying man slowly 
became conscious. 

"Graham," he murmured feebly, — "Graham, is 
that you ?" 

"Yes, yes, and I'll save you yet. O, in the 
name of Grace, I adjure you to live." 

" Alas for Grace ! My dream — will come true." 

" O Hilland, no, no ! O that I could die in 
your place ! What is my life to yours ! Rally, War- 
ren, rally. My fleet horse is tied near, or if you are too 
badly wounded I will stay and nurse you. I'll fire a 
pistol shot through my arm, and then we can be sent 
to the hospital together. Here, take more brandy. 
That’s right. With your physique you should not 
think of death. Let me lift you up and stanch your 
wound. " 

" Don't move me, Graham, or I'll bleed to death 
instantly, and — and — I want to look in your face — 
once more, and send my — true love to Grace. More 
brandy, please. It's getting light again. Before it 
was dark, — O, so dark ! How is it you are here ?" 

" I came back for you. Could I ride away and 
you not with me? O Warren! I must save your 
life. I must, I must !" 

" Leave me, Graham ; leave me at once. You 


ITS FULFILMENT. 


313 


will be captured, if not killed,” and Hilland spoke 
with energy. 

” I will never leave you. There, your voice 
proves that your strength is coming back. Warren, 
Warren, can’t you live for Grace’s sake ?” 

” Graham,” said Hilland, solemnly, ” even my 
moments are numbered. One more gush of blood 
from my side and I’m gone. O, shall I become 
nothing? Shall I be no more than the decaying 
tree behind which I crawled when struck down ? 
Shall I never see my peerless bride again ? She 
would always have been a bride to me. I can’t be- 
lieve it. There must be amends somewhere for the 
agony of mind, not body, that I’ve endured as I lay 
here, and for the anguish that Grace will suffer. 
O Graham, my philosophy fails me in this strait, 
my whole nature revolts at it. Mere corruption, 
chemical change, ought not to be the end of a man.'' 

” Do not waste your strength in words. Live, 
and in a few short weeks Grace may be your nurse. 
Take more brandy, and then I’ll go for assistance.” 

‘‘No, Graham, no. Don’t leave me. Life is 
ebbing again. Ah, ah ! farewell — true friend. 
Un — bounded love — Grace. Commit — her — your 
care !” 

There was a convulsive shudder and the noble 
form was still. 

Graham knelt over him for a few moments in 
silent horror. Then he tore open Hilland ’s vest and 
placed his hand over his heart. It was motionless. 
His hand, as he withdrew it, was bathed in blood. 
He poured brandy into the open lips, but the power- 


314 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


ful stimulant was without effect. The awful truth 
overwhelmed him. 

Hilland was dead. 

He sat down, lifted his friend up against his 
breast, and hung over him with short, dry sobs, — 
with a grief far beyond tears, careless, reckless of his 
own safety. 

The bushes near him were parted, and a sweet 
girlish face, full of fear, wonder, and pity, looked 
upon him. The interpretation of the scene was but 
too evident, and tears gushed from the young girl’s 
eyes. 

“ O sir,” she began in a low, faltering voice. 

The mourner paid no heed. 

” Please, sir,” she cried, ” do not grieve so. I 
never saw a man grieve like that. O papa, papa, 
come, come here.” 

The quick pride of manhood was touched, and 
Graham laid his friend reverently down, and stood 
erect, quiet, but with heaving breast. Hasty steps 
approached, and a gray-haired man stood beside the 
young girl. 

” I am your prisoner, sir,” said Graham, ” but in 
the name of humanity I ask you to let me bury my 
dead.” 

” My dear young sir, in the name of humanity 
and a more sacred Name, I will do all for you in my 
power. I am a clergyman, and am here with a party 
from a neighboring village, charged with the office of 
burying the dead with appropriate rites. I have no 
desire to take you prisoner, but will be glad to 
entertain you as my guest if the authorities will per- 


ITS FULFILMENT 


315 

mit. Will you not give me some brief explanation 
of this scene while they are gathering up the dead ?’* 

Graham did so in a few sad words. The daughter 
sat crying on the mossy log meanwhile, and the old 
man wiped his eyes again and again. 

“ Was there ever a nobler-looking man?'’ sobbed 
the girl ; “ and to think of his poor wife ! Papa, he 
must not be buried here. He must be taken to our 
little cemetery by the church, and I will often put 
flowers on his grave.” 

“ If you will carry out this plan, sweet child,” 
said Graham, ” one broken-hearted woman will bless 
you while she lives.” 

” Think, papa,” resumed the girl, — ” think if it 
was our Henry what we would wish.” 

” Tm glad you feel as you do, my child. It proves 
that this horrible war is not hardening your heart 
or making you less gentle or compassionate. I will 
carry out your wishes and yours, sir, and will use my 
whole influence to prevent your noble fidelity to 
your friend from becoming the cause of your cap- 
tivity. I will now summon assistance to carry your 
friend to the road, where a wagon can take him to 
the village.” 

In a few moments two negro slaves, part of the 
force sent to bury the dead, with their tattered hats 
doffed out of respect, slowly bore the body of Hil- 
land to the roadside. Graham, with his bare head 
bowed under a weight of grief that seemed well-nigh 
crushing, followed closely, and then the old clergy- 
man and his daughter. They laid the princely form 
down on the grass beside a dark-haired young Con- 


3i6 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


federate officer, who was also to be taken to the 
cemetery. 

The sad rites of burial which the good old man 
now performed over both friend and foe of subor- 
dinate rank need not be dwelt upon. While they 
were taking place Graham stood beside his friend 
as motionless as if he had become a statue, heed- 
less of the crowd of villagers and country people 
that had gathered to the scene. 

At last a sweet voice said, “ Please, sir, it's time 
to go. You ride with papa. I am young and strong 
and can walk.” 

His only response was to take her hand and kiss 
it fervently. Then he turned to her father and told 
him of his horse that was hidden in the nearest edge 
of the belt of woods, and asked that it might be sent 
for by some one who was trustworthy. 

“ Here is Sampson, one of my own people ; Td 
trust him with all I have and one of the negroes 
who had borne the body of Hilland hastened away 
as directed, and soon returned with the beautiful 
horse that awakened the admiration of all and the 
cupidity of a few of the nondescript characters that 
had been drawn to the place. 

A rude wagon was drawn to the roadside, its rough 
boards covered with leafy boughs, and the Union and 
the Confederate officer were placed in it side by 
side. Then the minister climbed into his old-fash- 
ioned gig, his daughter sprang lightly in by his side, 
took the reins and slowly led the way, followed by 
the extemporized hearse, while Graham on his horse 
rode at the feet of his friend, chief mourner in bitter 


ITS FULFILMENT. 


317 

truth. The negroes who had buried the dead 
walked on either side of the wagon bare-headed and 
oblivious of the summer sun, and the country people 
and villagers streamed along the road after the sim- 
ple procession. 

The bodies were first taken to the parsonage, and 
the stains of battle removed by an old colored aunty, 
a slavq of the clergyman. Graham gave into the 
care of the clergyman’s daughter Hilland’s sword 
and some other articles that he did not wish to carry 
on h’s return to the Union lines. Among these 
was an exquisite likeness of Grace, smiling in her 
happy loveliness. 

Tears again rushed into the young girl’s eyes as 
she asked in accents of, deepest commiseration, 
“ And will you have to break the news to her ?” 

“ No,” said Graham, hoarsely; ” I could not do 
that. Td rather face a thousand guns than that 
poor wife.” 

” Why do you not keep the likeness ?” 

” I could not look upon it and think of the change 
which this fatal day will bring to those features. I 
shall leave it with you until she comes for his sword 
and to visit his grave. No one has a better right to 
it than you, and in this lovely face you see the 
promise of your own womanhood reflected. You 
have not told me your name. I wish to know it, for 
I shall love an5 cherish it as one of my most sacred 
memories. ” 

” Margarita Anderson,” was the blushing reply. 
” Papa and my friends call me Rita.” 

” Let me call you what your name signifies, and 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS, 


what you have proved yourself to be, — Pearl. Who 
is Henry ?” 

“ My only brother. He is a captain in our 
army. ’ ’ 

“You are a true Southern girl ?“ 

“ Yes, in body and soul I'm a Southern girl 
and her dark eyes flashed through her tears. 

“ So was the original of this likeness. She is kin 
to you in blood and feeling as well as in her noble 
qualities ; but she loved her Northern husband more 
than the whole world, and all in it was nothing com- 
pared with him. She will come and see you some 
day, and words will fail her in thanks." 

“ And will you come with her ?" 

“ I don’t know. I may be dead long before that 
time.’’ 

The young girl turned away, and for some reason 
her tears flowed faster than ever before. 

“ Pearl, my tender-hearted child, don’t grieve 
over what would be so small a grief to me. This 
evil day has clouded your young life with the sad- 
ness of others. But at your age it will soon pass 
and he returned to his friend and took from him the 
little mementos that he knew would be so dear to 
Grace. 

Soon after the two bodies were borne to the 
quaint old church and placed before the altar. Both 
were dressed in their full uniforms^ and there was a 
noble calmness on the face of each as they slum- 
bered side by side in the place sacred to the God of 
peace, and at peace with each other forevermore. 

For an hour the bell tolled slowly, and the people 


ITS FULFILMENT. 


319 


passed in at one door, looked upon the manly forms, 
and with awed faces crept out at the other. 

It was indeed a memorable day for the villagers. 
They had been awakened in the dawn by sounds of 
distant conflict. They had exulted over a brilliant 
victory as the Confederate forces came marching 
rapidly through their streets. They had been put 
on the qui vive to know what the rapid movement 
of their troops meant. Some of the most severely 
wounded had been left in their care. The battle- 
field with its horrors had been visited, and there was 
to be a funeral service over two actors in the bloody 
drama, whose untimely fate excited not only sympa- 
thy, but the deep interest and curiosity which ever 
attend upon those around whom rumor has woven 
a romantic history. The story of Graham’s return 
in search of his friend, of the circumstances of their 
discovery by Rita, of the likeness of the lovely wife 
who would soon be heart-broken from the knowledge 
of whai: was known to them, had got abroad among 
the people, and their warm Southern hearts were 
more touched by the fate of their Northern foe than 
by that of the officer wearing the livery of their own 
service, but of whom little was known. 

Graham’s profound grief also impressed them 
deeply ; and the presence of a Union officer, sitting 
among them, forgetful of his danger, of all except 
that his friend was dead, formed a theme which 
would be dwelt upon for months to come. 

Near the close of the day, after some appropriate 
words in the church, the venerable clergyman, with 
his white locks uncovered, led the way through the 


320 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


cemetery to its farther side, where, under the shade 
of an immense juniper-tree, were two open graves. 
As before, Graham followed his friend, and after him 
came Rita with a number of her young companions, 
dressed in white and carrying baskets of flowers. 
After an impressive burial service had been read, the 
young girls passed to and fro between the graves, 
throwing flowers in each and singing as they went a 
hymn breathing the certainty of the immortality 
that had been the object of poor Hilland’s longing 
aspiration. Graham’s heart thrilled as he heard the 
words, for they seemed the answer to his friend’s 
questions. But, though his feelings might be 
touched deeply, he was the last man to be moved by 
sentiment or emotion from a position to which his 
inexorable reason had conducted him. 

The sun threw its level rays over a scene that he 
never forgot, — the white-haired clergyman standing 
between the open graves ; the young maidens, led by 
the dark-eyed Rita, weaving in and out, their white 
hands and arms glowing like ivory as they strewed 
the flowers, meanwhile singing with an unconscious 
grace and pathos that touched the rudest hearts ; 
the concourse of people, chiefly women, old men, 
and children, for the young and strong were either 
mouldering on battle-fields or marching to others ; 
the awed sable faces of the negroes in the farther 
background ; the exquisite evening sky ; the songs 
of unheeding birds, so near to man in their choice of 
habitation, so remote from his sorrows and anxieties, 
— all combined to form a picture and a memory 
which would be vivid and real to his latest day. 


ITS FULFILMENT. 


321 


The graves were at last filled and piled up with 
flowers. Then Graham, standing uncovered before 
them all, spoke slowly and earnestly : — 

“ People of the South, you see before you a 
Northern man, an officer in the Union Army ; but as 
I live I cherish no thought of enmity toward one of 
you. On the contrary my heart is overwhelmed 
with gratitude. You have placed here side by side 
two brave men. You have rendered to their dust 
equal reverence and honor. I am in accord with 
you. I believe that the patriotism of one was as 
sincere as that of the other, the courage of one as 
high as that of the other, that the impulses which 
led them to offer up their lives were equally noble. 
In your generous sympathy for a fallen foe you have 
proved yourselves Americans in the best sense of 
the word. May the day come when that name shall 
suffice for us all. Believe me, I would defend your 
homes and my own with equal zeal and with a 
bow of profound respect he turned to the grave of 
his friend. 

With a delicate appreciation of his wish, the 
people, casting backward, lingering, sympathetic 
glances, ebbed away, aad he was soon left alone. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


A sou THERN GIRL. 

HEN Graham was left alone he knelt and 



V V bowed his head in the flowers that Rita had 
placed on H Aland’s grave, and the whole horrible 
truth seemed to grow, to broaden and deepen, like a 
gulf that had opened at his feet. Hilland, who had 
become a part of his own life and seemed insepara- 
ble from all its interests, had disappeared forever. 
But yesterday he was the centre of vast interests 
and boundless love ; now he had ceased to be. The 
love would remain, but O the torture of a boundless 
love when its object has passed beyond its reach ! 

The thought of Grace brought to the mourner an 
indescribable anguish. Once his profound love for 
her had asserted itself in a way that had stung him 
to madness, and the evil thought had never returned. 
Now she seemed to belong to the dead husband 
even more than when he was living. The thought 
that tortured him most was that Grace would not 
long survive Hilland. The union between the two 
had been so close and vital that the separation might 
mean death. The possibility overwhelmed him, and 
he grew faint and sick. Indeed it would seem that 


A SOUTHERN GIRL. 


323 

he partially lost consciousness, for at last he became 
aware that some one was standing near and pleading 
with him. Then he saw it was Rita. 

“Osir,” she entreated, “ do not grieve so. It 
breaks my heart to see a man so overcome. It 
seems terrible. It makes me feel that there are 
depths of sorrow that frighten me. O, come with 
me, — do, please. I fear you’ve eaten nothing to- 
day, and we have supper all ready for you.” 

Graham tottered to his feet and passed his hand 
across his brow, as if to brush away an evil dream. 

” Indeed, sir, you look sick and faint. Take my 
arm and lean on me. I assure you I am very 
strong.” 

“Yes, Pearl, you are strong. Many live to old 
age and never become as true a woman as you arc 
to-day. This awful event has well-nigh crushed 
me, and now I think of it, I have scarcely tasted 
food since last evening. Thank you, my child, I 
will take your arm. In an hour or two I shall gain 
self-control.” 

” My heart aches for you, sir,” she said, as they 
passed slowly through the twilight. 

” May it be long before it aches from any sorrow 
of your own, Pearl.” 

The. parsonage adjoined the church. The old 
clergyman abounded in almost paternal kindiless, 
and pressed upon Graham a glass of home-made 
wine. After he had taken this and eaten a little, his 
strength and poise returned, and he gave his enter- 
tainers a fuller account of Hilland and his relations, 
and in that Southern home there was as genuine 


324 SOMBRE RIVALS. 

sympathy for the inmates of the Northern home as 
if they all had been devoted to the same cause. 

“ There are many subjects on which we differ,” 
said his host. “You perceive that I have slaves, 
but they are so attached to me that I do not think 
they would leave me if I offered them their freedom. 
I have been brought up to think slavery right. My 
father and grandfather before me held slaves and 
always treated them well. I truly think they did 
better by them than the bondsmen could have done 
for themselves. To give them liberty and send 
them adrift would be almost like throwing little chil- 
dren out into the world. I know that there are 
evils and abuses connected with our system, but I 
feel sure that liberty given to a people unfitted 
for it would be followed by far greater evils.” 

“ It’s a subject to which I have given very little 
attention,” Graham replied. “ I have spent much 
of my life abroad, and certainly your servants are 
better off than the peasantry and very poor in many 
lands that I have visited.” 

With a kind of wonder he thought of the truth 
that Hilland, who so hated slavery, had been lifted 
^rom the battle-field by slaves, and that his remains 
had been treated with reverent honor by a slave- 
holder. 

The old clergyman’s words also proved that, while 
he deprecated the war unspeakably, his whole sym- 
pathy was with the South. His only son, of whom 
neither he nor Rita could speak without looks of 
pride and affection kindling in their faces, was in the 
Confederate service, and the old man prayed as fer- 


A SOUTHERN GIRL. 


325 


vently for success to the cause to which he had de- 
voted the treasure of his life as any Northern father 
could petition the God of nations for his boy and the 
restoration of the Union. At the same time his 
nature was too large, too highly ennobled by Chris- 
tianity, for a narrow, vindictive bitterness. He 
could love the enemy that he was willing his son 
should oppose in deadly battle. 

“ We hope to secure our independence,'' he add- 
ed, “ and to work out our national development ac- 
cording to the genius of our own people. I pray 
and hope for the time when the North and South 
may exist side by side as two friendly nations. 
Your noble words this afternoon found their echo in 
my heart. Even though my son should be slain by 
a Northern hand, as your friend has been by a South- 
ern, I wish to cherish no vindictive bitterness and 
enmity. The question must now be settled by the 
stern arbitrament of battle; but 'when the war is 
over let it not be followed by an era of hate." 

He then told Graham how he had lost his beloved 
wife years before, and how lonely and desolate he 
had been until Rita had learned to care for him and 
provide for his comfort with almost hourly vigilance. 

" Yes," said Graham, " I have seen it ; she is to 
you what my friend's wife is to her invalid father, 
the immeasurable blessing of his life. How it will be 
now I hardly know, for I fear that her grief will de- 
stroy her, and the old major, her father, could not 
long survive." 

A note was now handed to the old gentleman, 
who, having read it, appeared greatly distressed. 


326 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


After a moment's hesitancy he gave it to Graham, 
who read as follows : 

“ I heard the North'ner speak this arternoon, an' 
I can’t be one to take and rob him of his horse and 
send him to prison. But it’ll be done to-night if 
you can’t manage his escape. Every rode is watched, 
an' your house will be searched to-night. 

“ One of the Band. 

“ You'll burn this an' keep mum or my neck will 
be stretched." 

" Who brought the note?" Mr. Anderson asked, 
going to the door and questioning a colored woman. 

" Dunno, mas'r. De do' open a little, and de 
ting flew in on de flo'." 

" Well," said Graham, " I must mount and go at 
once and he was about to resume his arms. 

"Wait, wait; I must think!" cried his host. 
“ For you to go alone would be to rush into the very 
evils we are warned against. I am pained and 
humiliated beyond measure by this communication. 
Mr. Graham, do not judge us harshly. There is, I 
suppose, a vile sediment in every community, and 
there is here a class that won't enlist in open, honor- 
able warfare, but prowl around, chiefly at night, in- 
tent on deeds like this." 

" Papa," said Rita, who had read the warning, 
" I know what to do';’" arid her brave spirit flashed 
in her eyes. 

"You, my child?" 

" Yes. I'll prove to Mr. Graham what a South- 


A SOUTHERN GIRL. 


327 


ern girl will do for a guest, — for one who has trusted 
her. The deep, deep disgrace of his capture and 
robbery shall not come on our heads. I will guide 
him at once through the woods to old Uncle Jehu's 
cabin. No one will think of looking for him there ; 
for there is little more than a bridle-path leading to 
it ; but I know the way, every inch of it.” 

” But, Rita, I could send one of the servants with 
Mr. Graham.” 

“No, papa ; he would be missed and afterward 
questioned, and some awful revenge taken on him. 
You must say that I have retired when the villains 
come. You must keep all our servants in. Mr. 
Graham and I will slip out. He can saddle his horse, 
and I, you know well, can saddle mine. Now we 
must apparently go to our rooms and within half an 
hour slip out unperceived and start. No one will 
ever dare touch me, even if it is found out.” 

“ Pearl, priceless Pearl, I’ll fight my way through 
all the guerillas in the land, rather than subject you 
to peril.” 

“You could not fight your way through them, the 
cowardly skulkers. What chance would you have 
in darkness ? My plan brings me no peril, for if 
they met us they would not dare to touch me. But 
if it costs me my life I will go,” she concluded pas- 
sionately. “ This disgrace must not fall on our 
people.” 

“ Rita is right,” said the old clergyman, solemnly. 
“ I could scarcely survive the disgrace of having a 
guest taken from my home, and they would have to 
walk over my prostrate form before it could be done ; 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


and to send you out alone would be even more 
shameful. The plan does not involve much peril to 
Rita. Although, in a sense, you are my enemy, I 
will trust this pearl beyond price to your protection, 
and old Jehu will return with her until within a 
short distance of the house. As she says, I think 
no one in this region would harm her. 1 will co- 
operate with you, Rita, and entreat the Heavenly 
Father until I clasp you in my arms again. Act, act 
at once.” 

Graham was about to protest again, but she 
silenced him by a gesture that was almost imperi- 
ous. “ Don’t you see that for papa’s sake, for my 
own, as well as yours, I must go? Now let us say 
good-night as if we were parting unsuspicious of 
trouble. When I tap at your door, Mr. Graham, 
you will follow me ; and you, papa, try to keep our 
people in ignorance.” 

Graham wrung the clergyman’s hand in parting, 
and said, “You will always be to me a type of the 
noblest development of humanity.” 

“ God bless you, sir,” was the reply, “ and sustain 
you through the dangers and trying scenes before 
you. I am but a simple old man, trying to do right 
with God’s help. And, believe me, sir, the South 
is full of men as sincere as I am.” 

Within half an hour Graham followed his fair 
guide down a back stairway and out into the dark- 
ness. Rita’s pony was at pasture in a field adjoin- 
ing the stable, but he came instantly at her soft call. 

“ I shall not put on my saddle,” she whispered. 
“ If I leave it hanging in the stable it will be good 


A SOUTHERN- GIRL. 


329 

evidence that I am in my room. There will be no 
need of our riding fast, and, indeed, I have often 
ridden without a saddle for fun. I will guide you to 
your horse and saddle in the dark stable, for we 
must take him out of a back door, so that there will 
be no sound of his feet on the boards." 

Within a few moments they were passing like 
shadows down a shaded lane that led from the house 
to the forest, and then entered what was a mere 
bridle-path, the starlight barely enabling the keen- 
eyed Rita to make it out at times. The thick 
woods on either side prevented all danger of flank 
attacks. After riding some little time they stopped 
and listened. The absolute silence, broken only by 
the cries of the wild creatures of the night, convinced 
them that they were not followed. Then Rita said, 
“Old Jehu has a bright boy of sixteen or there- 
abouts, and he'll guide you north through the 
woods as far as he can, and then God will protect 
and guide you until you are sa’fe. I know He will 
help you to escape, that you may say words of com- 
fort to the poor, broken-hearted wife." 

"Yes, Pearl, I think I shall escape. I take youf 
guidance as a good omen. If I could only be sure 
that no harm came to you and your noble father !" 

" The worst of harm would have come to us had 
we permitted the evil that was threatened." 

"You seem very young. Pearl, and yet you are in 
many ways very mature and womanly." 

" I am young, — only sixteen, — but mamma’s death 
and the responsibility it brought me made my child- 
hood brief. Then Henry is five years older than I, 


330 HIS SOMBRE RIVALS, 

and I always played with him, and, of course, you 
know I tried to reach up to those things that he 
thought about and did. I’ve never been to school. 
Papa is educating me, and O, he knows so much, 
and he makes knowledge so interesting, that I can’t 
help learning a little. And then Henry’s going into 
the war, and all that is happening, makes me feel so 
very, very old and sad at times and so she contin- 
ued in low tones to tell about herself and Henry and 
her father, of their hopes of final victory, and all 
that made up her life. This she did with a guile- 
less frankness, and yet with a refined reserve that was 
indescribable in its simple pathos and beauty. In 
spite of himself Graham was charmed and soothed, 
while he wondered at the exquisite blending of girl- 
hood and womanhood in his guide. She also ques- 
tioned him about the North and the lands he had 
visited, about his aunt and Grace and her father ; 
and Graham’s tremulous tones as he spoke of Grace 
led her to say sorrowfully, “ Ah, she is very, very 
dear to you also.” 

“Yes,” he said, imitating her frankness, “she 
is dearer to me than my life. I would gladly have 
died in Hilland’s place to have saved her this sorrow. 
Were it not for the hope of serving her in some way, 
death would have few terrors to me. There, my 
child, I have spoken to you as I have to only one 
other, my dear old aunty, who is like a mother. 
Your noble trust begets trust.” 

Then he became aware that she was crying bit- 
terly. 

“ Pearl, Pearl,” he said, “ don’t cry. I have be- 


A SOUTHERN GIRL. 


331 


come accustomed to a sad heart, and it’s an old, old 
story. ’ ’ 

“ O Mr. Graham, I remember hearing mamma 
say once that women learn more through their hearts 
than their heads. I have often thought of her 
words, and I think they must be true. Almost from 
the first my heart told me that there was something 
about you which made you different from other peo- 
ple. Why is the world so full of trouble of every 
kind ? Ah well, papa has taught me that heaven 
will make amends for everything.” 

They had now reached a little clearing, and Rita 
said that they were near Jehu’s cabin, and that their 
final words had better be said before awakening the 
old man. ” I must bathe my face, too,” she added, 
” for he would not understand my tears,” and went 
to a clear little spring but a few paces away. 

Graham also dismounted. When she returned he 
took her hand and raised it reverently to his lips as 
he said, ” Pearl, this is not a case for ordinary thanks. 
I no doubt owe my life, certainly my liberty, to you. 
On that I will not dwell. I owe to you and your 
father far more, and so does poor Grace Hilland. 
You insured a burial for niy friend that will bring a 
world of comfort to those who loved him. The 
thought of your going to his grave and placing upon 
it fresh flowers from time to time will contain more 
balm than a thousand words of well-meant condo- 
lence. Pearl, my sweet, pure, noble child, is there 
nothing I can do for you ?” 

” Yes,” she faltered ; “ it may be that you can re- 
turn all that we have done a hundred-fold. It may 


332 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS, 


be that you will meet Henry in battle. In the 
memory of his little sister you will spare him, will 
you not ? If he should be captured I will tell 
him to write to you, and I feel sure that you will 
remember our lonely ride and the gray old father 
who is praying for you now, and will not leave him 
to suffer.*' 

Graham drew a seal ring from his finger and said : 
“ Dear Pearl, take this as a pledge that I will serve 
him in any way in my power and at any cost to my- 
self. I hope the day will come when he will honor 
me with his friendship, and I would as soon strjke 
the friend I have lost as your brother.” 

” Now I am content,” she said. ” I believe 
every word you say. 

” And Grace Hilland will come some day and 
claim you as a sister dearly beloved. And I, sweet 
Pearl, will honor your memory in my heart of hearts. 
The man who wins you as his bride may well be 
prouder than an emperor.” 

” O no, Mr. Graham, I'm just a simple South- 
ern girl.” 

” There are few like you, I fear. South or North. 
You are a girl to kindle every manly instinct and 
power, and I shall be better for having known you> 
The hope of serving you and yours in some way and 
at some time will give a new zest and value to my 
life.” 

” Do not speak so kindly or I shall cry again. 
I’ve been afraid you would think me silly, I cry so 
easily. I do not think we Southern girls are like 
those at the North, They are colder, I imagine, or 


A SOUTHERN GIRL. 


333 


at least more able to control their feelings. Papa 
says I am a child of the South. I can’t decide just 
how much or how little I ought to feel on all occa- 
sions, and ever since I saw you mourning over your 
friend with just such passionate grief as I should feel, 
my whole heart has ached for you. You will come 
and see us again if you have a chance?” 

” I will make chances, Pearl, even though they 
involve no little risk.” 

“No, no ; don’t do that. You ought to care too 
much for us to do that. Nothing would give me 
pleasure that brought danger to you. If 1 could 
only know that you reached your friends in safety !” 

“ I’ll find a way of letting you know if I can.” 

“ Well, then, good-by. It’s strange, but you 
seem like an old, old friend. O, I know Henry 
will like you, and that you will like him. Next to 
mamma’s, your ring shall be my dearest treasure. I 
shall look at it every night and think I have added 
one more chance of Henry’s safety. O, I could 
worship the man who saved his life.” 

“ And any man might worship you. Good-by, 
Pearl and he kissed her hand again and again, 
then lifted her on her pony with a tenderness that 
was almost an embrace, and she rode slowly to the 
door of a little log cabin, while Graham remained 
concealed in the shadow of the woods until it was 
made certain that no one was in the vicinity except 
Jehu and his family. 

The old man was soon aroused, and his ejacula- 
tions and exclamations were innumerable. 

“ No, missy, dars no un been roun’ heah for right 


334 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


smart days. It’s all safe, an’ Jehu an’ his ole ooman 
knows how ter keep mum when Mas’r Anderson says 
mum ; an’ so does my peart boy Huey,” — who, 
named for his father, was thus distinguished from 
him. ” An’ de hossifer is a Linkum man ? Sho, 
sho ! who’d a tink it, and his own son a ’Federate ! 
Well, well, Mas’r Anderson isn’t low-down white 
trash. If he thought a ting was right I reckon de 
hull work couldn’t make him cut up any white-trash 
didoes.” 

When Rita explained further the old negro replied 
with alacrity : ” Ob cose Jehu will took you home 
safe, an’ proud he’ll be ter go wid you, honey. 
You’se a mighty peart little gal, an’ does you’se 
blood an’ broughten up jestice. Mighty few would 
dar’ ride five mile troo de lonesome woods wid a 
strange hossifer, if he be a Linkum man. He mus’ 
be sumpen like Linkum hisself. Yes, if you bain’t 
afeared ter show him de way, Huey needn’t be 
and the boy, who was now wide awake, said he’d 
“ like notten better dan showin’ a Linkum man troo 
de woods.” 

Graham was summoned, and in a few moments all 
was arranged. 

He then drew the old man aside and said, ” You 
good, faithful old soul, take care of that girl as the 
apple of your eye, for she has only one equal in the 
world. Here is one hundred dollars. That will pay 
for a good many chickens and vegetables, won’t it ?” 

” Lor’ bless you, mas’r, dey ain’t chickens nuff in 
Ole Virginny to brought hundred dollars.” 

” Well, I’ll tell you what I’m afraid of. This 


A SOUTHERN GIRL. 


335 


region may be wasted by war, like so many others. 
You may not be troubled in this out-of-the-way 
place. If Mr. Anderson’s family is ever in need, 
you are now paid to supply them with all that you 
can furnish.” 

” ’Deed I is, mas’r, double paid.” 

Be faithful to them and you shall have more 
* Linkum money,’ as you call it. Keep it, for your 
money down here won’t be worth much soon.” 

” Dat’s shoah. De cullud people bain’t all prayin' 
for Linkum for notten. ” 

” Good-by. Do as I say and you shall be taken 
care of some day. Say nothing about this.” 

” Mum’s de word all roun’ ter-night, mas’r.” 

” Huey, are you ready ?” 

” I is, mas’r.” 

” Lead the way, then and again approaching 
Rita, Graham took off his hat and bowed low as he 
said, ” Give my grateful greeting to your honored 
father, and may every hope of his heart be fulfilled 
in return for his good deeds to-day. As for you. 
Miss Anderson, no words can express my profound 
respect and unbounded gratitude. " We shall meet 
again in happier times and backing his horse, 
while he still remained uncovered, he soon turned 
and followed Huey. 

“Well, now,” ejaculated Jehu. ” ’Clar ter you 
ef dat ar Linkum hossifer bain’t nigh onter bein’ as 
fine a gemman as Mas’r Henry hisself. Won’t 
you take some ’freshment, missy? No? Den I’se 
go right ’long wid you.” 

Rita enjoined silence, ostensibly for the reason 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


S3^ 

that it was prudent, but chiefly that she might have 
a respite from the old man’s garrulousness. Her 
thoughts were very busy. The first romance of her 
young life had come, and she still felt on her hands 
the kisses that had been so warm and sincere, 
although she knew they were given by one who 
cherished a hopeless love. After all, it was but her 
vivid Southern imagination that had been kindled 
by the swift, strange events of the past twenty-four 
hours. With the fine sense of the best type of 
dawning womanhood, she had been deeply moved 
by Graham’s strong nature. She had seen in him a 
love for another man that was as tender and 
passionate as that of a woman, and yet it was 
bestowed upon the husband of the woman whom he 
had loved for years. That he had not hesitated 
to risk captivity and death in returning for his friend 
proved his bravery to be unlimited, and a Southern 
girl adores courage. For a time Graham would be 
the ideal of her girlish heart. His words of ad- 
miration and respect were dwelt upon, and her 
cheeks flushed unseen in the deep shadow of the 
forest. Again her tears would fall fast as she 
thought of his peril and of all the sad scenes of 
the day and the sadder ones still to C£)me. Grace 
H Aland, a Southern girl like herself, became a 
glorified image to her fancy, and it would now be 
her chief ambition to be like her. She would keep 
her lovely portrait on her bureau beside her Bible, 
and it should be almost equally sacred. 

In the edge of the forest she parted from Jehu 
with many and warm thanks, for she thought it wise 


A SOUTHERN GIRL. 


337 


that there should not be the slightest chance of his 
being seen. She also handed him a Confederate bill 
out of her slender allowance, patted him on the 
shoulder as she would some faithful animal, and 
rode away. He crept along after her till he saw her 
let down some bars and turn her pony into the 
fields. He then crept on till he saw her enter a 
door, and then stole back to the forest and shambled 
homeward as dusky as the shadows in which he 
walked, chuckling, “ Missy Rita, sweet honey, guv 
me one of dem ’Federate rags. O golly ! I’se got 
more money — live Linkum money — dan Mas’r An- 
derson hisself, and I’se got notten ter do but raise 
chickens an’ garden sass all my born days. Missy 
Rita’s red cheeks never grow pale long as Jehu or 
Huey can tote chickens and sass.” 


CHAPTER XXX. 


GUERILLAS. 



RAH AM, beyond a few low, encouraging words, 


V-T held his peace and also enjoined silence on his 
youthful guide. His plan was to make a wide circuit 
around the battle-field of the previous day, and then 
strike the trail of the Union forces, which he be- 
lieved he could follow at night. Huey thought that 
this could be done and that they could keep in the 
shelter of the woods most of the distance, and this 
they accomplished, reconnoitring the roads most 
carefully before crossing them. Huey was an in- 
veterate trapper ; and as his pursuit was quite as 
profitable as raising “ sass,*' old Jehu gave the boy 
his own way. Therefore he knew every path through 
the woods for miles around. 

The dawn was in the east before Graham reached 
the Union trail, and he decided to spend the day in 
a dense piece of woods not very far distant. Huey 
soon settled the question of Mayburn’s provender 
by purloining a few sheaves of late oats from a field 
that they passed ; but when they reached their hid- 
ing-place Graham was conscious that he was in need 
of food himself, and he also remembered that a boy 
is always ravenous. 


GUERILLAS. 


339 


‘'Well, Huey, ” he said, “in providing for the 
horse you have attended to the main business, but 
what are we going to do ?“ 

“ We’se gwine ter do better’n de boss. If mas’r ’ll 
’zamine his saddle-bags, reckon he’ll fine dat Missy 
Rita hain’t de leddy to sen’ us off on a hunt widout a 
bite of suthin’ good. She sez, sez she to me, in kind 
o’ whisper like, ‘ Mas’r Graham’ll fine suthin’ you’ll 
like, Huey;’ ’’ and the boy eyed the saddle-bags 
like a young wolf. 

“ Was there ever such a blessed girl !’’ cried 
Graham, as he pulled out a flask of wine, a fowl cut 
into nice portions, bread, butter, and relishes, — in- 
deed, the best that her simple housekeeping afforded 
in the emergency. In the other bag there was also 
a piece of cake of such portentous size that Huey 
clasped his hands and rolled up his eyes as he had 
seen his parents do when the glories of heaven were 
expatiated upon in the negro prayer-meetings. 

“ That’s all for you, Huey, and here’s some 
bread and cold ham to go with it. When could 
she have provided these things so thoughtfully ? It 
must have been before she called me last night. 
Now, Huey, if you ever catch anything extra nice in 
the woods you take it to Miss Rita. There is ten 
dollars to pay you ; and when the Lincoln men get 
possession here I’ll look after you and give you a fine 
chance, if you have been faithful. You must not 
tell Miss Rita what I say, but seem to do all of your 
own accord. I wish I had more money with me, 
but you will see me again, and I will make it all right 
with you.” 


340 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


“ It’s all right now, mas’r. What wouldn’t I do 
for Missy Rita ? When my ole mammy was sick 
she bro’t med’cin, and a right smart lot ob tings, 
and brung her troo de weariness. Golly ! Wonder 
Missy Rita don’t go straight up ter heben like dem 
rackets dey shoots when de ’Federates say dey hab a 
vict’ry and then the boy’s mouth became so full 
that he was speechless for a long time. 

The sense of danger, and the necessity for the 
utmost vigilance, had diverted Graham’s thoughts 
during his long night ride ; and with a soldier’s habit 
he had concentrated his faculties on the immediate 
problem of finding the trail, verifying Huey’s local 
knowledge by observation of the stars. Now, in the 
cool summer morning, with Rita’s delicious repast 
before him, life did not seem so desperate a thing as 
on the day before. Although exceedingly wearied, 
the strength of mind which would enable him to 
face his sad tasks was returning. He thought little 
about the consequences of his disobedience to orders, 
and cared less. If he lost his rank he would enlist 
as a private soldier after he had done all in his power 
for Grace, who had been committed to his care by 
Hilland’s last words. He felt that she had the most 
sacred claims upon him, and yet he queried, “ What 
can I do for her beyond communicating every detail 
of her husband’s last hours and his burial ? What 
remedy is there for a sorrow like hers ?” 

At the same time he felt that a lifelong and 
devoted friendship might bring solace and help at 
times, and this hope gave a new value to his life. 
He also thought it very possible that the strange 


GUERILLAS. 


341 


vicissitudes of war might put it in his power to serve 
the Andersons, in whom he felt a grateful interest 
that only such scenes as had just occurred could have 
awakened. It would ever be to him a source of un- 
alloyed joy to add anything to Rita Anderson’s 
happiness. 

His kind old aunt, too, had her full share of his 
thoughts as he reclined on the dun-colored leaves of 
the previous year, and reviewed the past and planned 
for the future. He recalled her words, “ that good 
would come of it,” when he had promised to ” live 
and do his best.” Although in his own life he had 
missed happiness, there was still a prospect of his 
adding much to the well-being of others. 

But how could he meet Grace again ? He trem- 
bled at the very thought. Her grief would unman 
him. It was agony even to imagine it ; and she 
might, in her ignorance of an officer’s duties in bat- 
tle, think that if he had kept near Hilland the awful 
event might have been averted. 

After all, he could reach but one conclusion, — to 
keep his old promise “to do his best,” as circum- 
stances indicated. 

Asking Huey, who had the trained ear of a hunter, 
to watch and listen, he took some sleep in prepara- 
tion for the coming night, and then gave the boy a 
chance to rest. 

The day passed quietly, and in the evening he 
dismissed Huey, with assurances to Rita and her 
father that a night’s ride would bring him within the 
Union lines, and that he now knew the way well. 
The boy departed in high spirits, feeling that he 


342 


ms SOMBRE RIVALS. 


would like “ showin’ Linkum men troo de woods/‘ 
even better than trapping. 

Then looking well to his arms, and seeing that 
they were ready for instant use, Graham started on 
his perilous ride, walking his horse and stopping to 
listen from time to time. Once in the earlier part 
of the night he heard the sound of horses’ feet, and 
drawing back into the deep shadow of the woods he 
saw three or four men gallop by. They were un- 
doubtedly guerillas looking for him, or on some 
prowl with other objects in view. At last he knew 
he must be near his friends, and he determined to 
push on, even though the dawn was growing bright ; 
but he had hardly reached this conclusion when but 
a short distance in advance a dozen horsemen dashed 
out of a grove and started toward him. 

They were part of “ The Band,” who, with the 
instincts of their class, conjectured too truly that, 
since he had eluded them thus far, their best chance 
to intercept him would be at his natural approach to 
the Union lines ; and now, with the kind of joy pe- 
culiar to themselves, they felt that their prey was 
in their power beyond all hope of escape, for Graham 
was in plain sight, upon a road enclosed on either 
side by a high rail fence. There were so many guer- 
illas that there was not a ghost of a chance in fight- 
ing or riding through them, and for a moment his 
position seemed desperate. 

“ It’s Mayburn to the rescue now,” he muttered, 
and he turned and sped away, and every leap of 
his noble horse increased the distance between him 
and his pursuers, His confidence soon returned, for 


GUERILLAS. 


343 


he felt that unless something unforeseen occurred he 
could ride all around them. His pursuers fired two 
shots, which were harmless enough, but to his dismay 
Graham soon learned that they were signals, for from 
a farm-house near other horsemen entered the road, 
and he was between two parties. 

There was not a moment to lose. Glancing ahead 
he saw a place where the fence had lost a rail or two. 
He spurred toward it, and the gallant horse flew over 
like a bird into a wide field fringed on the farther 
side by a thick growth of timber. Bullets from the 
intercepting party whizzed around him ; but he sped 
on unharmed, while his pursuers only stopped long 
enough to throw off a few rails, and then both of the 
guerilla squads rode straight for the woods, with the 
plan of keeping the fugitive between them, knowing 
that in its tangle he must be caught. 

Graham resolved to risk another volley in order to 
ride around the pursuers nearest the Union lines, 
thus throwing them in the rear, with no better chance 
than a stern chase would give them. In order to 
accomplish this, however, he had to circle very near 
the woods, and in doing so saw a promising wood- 
road leading into them. The yelling guerillas were 
so close as to make his first plan of escape extremely 
hazardous ; therefore following some happy instinct 
he plunged into the shade of the forest. The road 
proved narrow, but it was open and unimpeded by 
overhanging boughs. Indeed, the trees were the 
straight, slender pines in which the region abounded, 
and he gained on all of his pursuers except two, who, 
like himself, were superbly mounted. The thud of 


344 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS 


their horses' hoofs kept near, and he feared that he 
might soon come to some obstruction which would 
bring them to close quarters. Mayburn was giving 
signs of weariness, for his mettle had been sorely 
tried of late, and Graham resolved to ambush his 
pursuers if possible. An opportunity occurred speed- 
ily, for the road made a sharp turn, and there was 
a small clearing where the timber had been cut. The 
dawn had as yet created but a twilight in the woods, 
and the obscurity aided his purpose. He drew up 
by the roadside at the beginning of the clearing, 
and in a position where he could not readily be seen 
until the guerillas were nearly abreast, and waited, 
with his heavy revolver in hand and his drawn sword 
lying across the pommel of his saddle. 

On they came at a headlong pace, and passed into 
the clearing but a few feet away. There were two 
sharp reports, with the slightest possible interval. 
The first man dropped instantly ; the other rode 
wildly for a few moments and then fell headlong, 
while the riderless horses galloped on for a time. 

Graham, however, soon overtook them, and with 
far more compunction than he had felt in shooting 
their riders, he struck them such a blow with his 
sword on their necks, a little back of their ears, that 
they reeled and fell by the roadside. He feared 
those horses more than all “The Band for if 
mounted again they might tire Mayburn out in a 
prolonged chase. 

To his great joy the wood lane soon emerged into 
another large open field, and he now felt compara- 
tively safe. 


GUERILLAS, 


345 


The guerillas, on hearing the shots, spurred on 
exultantly, feeling sure of their prey, but only to 
stumble over their fallen comrades. One was still 
able to explain the mode of their discomfiture ; and 
the dusky road beyond at once acquired wholesome 
terrors for the survivors, who rode on far more slowly 
and warily, hoping now for little more than the 
recapture of the horses, which were the envy of all 
their lawless hearts. Your genuine guerilla will 
always incur a heavy risk for a fine horse. They 
soon discovered the poor brutes, and saw at a glance 
that they would be of no more service in irregular 
prowlings. Infuriated more at the loss of the beasts 
than at that of the men, they again rushed forward 
only to see Graham galloping easily away in the dis- 
tance. 

Even in their fury they recognized that further 
pursuit was useless, and with bitter curses on their 
luck they took the saddles from the fallen horses, 
and carried their associates, one dead and the other 
dying, to the farm-house in which dwelt a sympa- 
thizer, who had given them refreshment during the 
night. 

A few hours later— for he travelled the rest of the 
way very warily — Graham reported to his colonel, 
and found the brigade under orders to move on the 
following morning, provided with ten days’ rations. 

The ofificer was both delighted and perplexed. 
** It’s a hard case,” he said. ” You acted from the 
noblest impulses ; but it was flat disobedience to 
orders.” 

“ I know it. I shall probably be dismissed from 


346 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


the service. If so, colonel, I will enlist as a private 
in your regiment. Then you can shoot me if I dis- 
obey again.” 

” Well, you are the coolest fellow that ever wore 
the blue. Come with me to headquarters.” 

The fact of his arrival, and an imperfect story of 
what had occurred, soon got abroad among the men ; 
and they were wild in their approval, cheering him 
with the utmost enthusiasm as he passed to the 
brigadier’s tent. The general was a genuine cavalry 
man ; and was too wise in his day and generation to 
alienate his whole brigade by any martinetism. He 
knew Graham’s reputation well, and he was about 
starting on a dangerous service. The cheers of the 
men crowding to his tent spoke volumes. Hilland’s 
regiment seemed half beside themselves when they 
learned that Graham had found their lieutenant- 
colonel dying on the field, and that he had been 
given an honorable burial. The general, therefore, 
gave Graham a most cordial welcome ; and said that 
the question was not within his jurisdiction, and that 
he would forward full particulars at once through 
the proper channels to the Secretary of War ; adding, 
” We’ll be on the march before orders can reach 
you. Meanwhile take your old command.” 

Then the story had to be repeated in detail to the 
chief officers of the brigade. Graham told it in 
as few words as possible, and they all saw that his 
grief was so profound that the question of his future 
position in the army was scarcely thought of. “I 
am not a sentimental recruit,” he said in conclusion. 
” I know the nature of my offence, and will make no 


GUERILLAS. 


347 


plea beyond that I believed that all danger to our 
command had passed, and that it would ride quietly 
into camp, as it did. I also thought that my supe- 
riors in giving the order were more concerned for my 
safety than for anything else. What the conse- 
quences are to myself personally, I don’t care a 
straw. * There are some misfortunes which dwarf all 
others.” The conference broke up with the most 
hearty expressions of sympathy, and the regret for 
Hilland’s death was both deep and genuine. 

“ I have a favor to ask my colonel, with your ap- 
proval, General,” said Graham. ” I would like to 
take a small detachment and capture the owner of 
the farm-house at which was harbored part of the 
guerilla band from which I escaped. I would like 
to make him confess the names of his associates, 
and send word to them that if harm comes to any 
who showed kindness or respect to officers of our 
brigade, severe punishment will be meted out on 
every one whenever the region is occupied by 
Union forces.” 

” I order the thing to be done at once,” cried the 
general. ” Colonel, give Major Graham as many 
men as he needs ; and, Graham, send word we’ll hang 
every mother’s son of ’em and burn their ranches, if 
they indulge in any more of their devilish outrages. 
Bring the farmer into camp, and I will send him to 
Washington as a hostage.” 

On this occasion Graham obeyed orders literally. 
The farmer and two of the guerillas were captured ; 
and when threatened with' a noosed rope confessed 
the names of the others. A nearly grown son of the 


34 « 


triS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


farmer was intrusted with the general's message to 
their associates ; and Graham added emphatically 
that he intended to come himself some day and see 
that it was obeyed. “ Tell them to go into the army 
and become straightforward soldiers if they wish, 
but if I ever hear of another outrage I’ll never rest 
till the general's threat is carried out." 

Graham’s deadly pistol shots and the reputation 
he had gained in the vicinity gave* weight to his 
words; and "The Band " subsided into the most 
humdrum farmers of the region. Rita had ample 
information of his safety, for it soon became known 
that he had killed two of the most active and daring 
of the guerillas and captured three others ; and she 
worshipped the hero of her girlish fancy all the more 
devoutly. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

JUST IN TIME. 

RAHAM returned to camp early in the after- 
V-JT noon, and was again greeted with acclama- 
tions, for the events that had occurred had become 
better known. The men soon saw, however, from 
his sad, stern visage that he was in no mood for 
ovations, and that noisy approval of his course was 
very distasteful. After reporting, he went directly to 
his tent ; its flaps were closed, and Iss was instructed 
to permit no one to approach unless bearing orders. 
The faithful negro, overjoyed at his master’s safe 
return, marched to and fro like a belligerent watch- 
dog. 

Graham wrote the whole story to his aunt, and 
besought her to make known to Grace with all the 
gentleness and tact that she possessed the awful cer- 
tainty of her husband’s death. A telegram announ- 
cing him among the missing had already been sent. 
“ Say to her,” he said, in conclusion, “ that during 
every waking moment I am grieving for her and 
with her. O, I tremble at the effect of her grief : 
I dread its consequences beyond all words. You 
know that every power I possess is wholly at her ser- 


350 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


vice. Write me daily and direct me what to do,— if, 
alas ! it is within my power to do anything in regard 
to a grief that is without remedy.'’ 

He then explained that the command was under 
orders to move the following day, and that he would 
write again when he could. 

During the next two weeks he saw some active 
service, taking part in several skirmishes and one 
severe engagement. In the last it was his fortune 
to receive on the shoulder a sabre-cut which prom- 
ised to be a painful though not a dangerous wound, 
his epaulet having broken the force of the blow. 

On the evening of the battle a telogram was for- 
warded to him containing the words : 

“ Have written fully. Come home if you can for 
a short time. All need you. 

“ Charlotte Mayburn.” 

In the rapid movements of his brigade his aunt's 
letters had failed to reach him, and now he esteemed 
his wound most fortunate since it secured him a 
leave of absence. 

His journey home was painful in every sense of 
the word. He was oppressed by the saddest of 
memories. He both longed and dreaded unspeak- 
ably to see Grace ; and the lack of definite tidings 
from her left his mind a prey to the dreariest fore- 
bodings, which were enhanced by his aunt’s tele- 
gram. The physical pain from which he was never 
free was almost welcomed as a diversion from his 
distress of mind. He stopped in Washington only 


JUST IN TIME. 


351 


long enough to have his wound re-dressed, and 
pushed northward. A fatality of delays irritated 
him beyond measure ; and it was late at night when 
he left the cars and was driven to his aunt’s resi- 
dence. 

A yearning and uncontrollable interest impelled 
him to approach first the cottage which contained 
the woman, dearer to him than all the world, who 
had been so strangely committed to his care. To 
his surprise there was a faint light in the library ; 
and Hilland’s ill-omened dream flashed across his 
mind. With a prophetic dread at heart, he stepped 
lightly up the piazza to a window. As he turned 
the blinds he witnessed a scene that so smote his 
heart that he had to lean against the house for sup- 
port. Before him was the reality of poor Hilland’s 
vision. 

On the rug before the flickering fire the stricken 
wife crouched, wringing her hands, which looked 
ghostly in their whiteness. A candle burning dimly 
on a table increased the light of the fire ; and by their 
united rays he saw, with a thrill of horror, that her 
loosened hair, which covered her bowed face and 
shoulders, was, in truth, silver white ; and its con- 
trast with her black wrapper made the whole scene, 
linked as it was with a dead man’s dream, so ghostly 
that he shuddered, and was inclined to believe it 
to be the creation of his overwrought senses. In 
self-distrust he looked around. Other objects were 
clear in the faint moonlight. He was perfectly con- 
scious of the dull ache of his wound. Had the 
phantom crouching before the fire vanished ? No ; 


352 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS, 


but now the silver hair was thrown back, and Grace 
Hilland’s white, agonized face was lifted heaven- 
ward. O, how white it was ! 

She slowly took a dark-colored vial from her 
bosom. 

Thrilled with unspeakable horror, Grace he 
shouted, and by a desperate effort threw the blind 
upward and off from its hinges, and it fell with a 
crash on the veranda. Springing into the apart- 
ment, he had not reached her side before the door 
opened, and his aunt's frightened face appeared. 

“ Great God ! what does this mean, Alford ?” 

**What does it mean, indeed!" he echoed in 
agonized tones, as he knelt beside Grace, who had 
fallen on the floor utterly unconscious. “ Bring the 
candle here," he added hoarsely. 

She mechanically obeyed and seemed almost para- 
lyzed. After a moment’s search he snatched up 
something and cried, " She’s safe, she’s safe ! The 
cork is not removed." Then he thrust the vial 
into his pocket, and lifted Grace gently on the lounge, 
saying meanwhile, " She has only fainted ; surely ’tis 
no more. O, as you value my life and hers, act. 
Vou should know what to do. I will send the 
coachman for a physician instantly, and will come 
when you need me." 

Rushing to the man’s room, he dragged him from 
his bed, shook him awake, and gave him instructions 
and offers of reward that stirred the fellow’s blood 
as it had never been stirred before ; and yet when 
he reached the stable he found that Graham had 
broken the lock and had a horse saddled and ready. 


JUST IN TIME. 


353 


“ Now ride,” he was commanded, “ as if the devil 
you believe in was after you.” 

Then Graham rushed back into the house, for he 
was almost beside himself. But when he heard the 
poor old major calling piteously, and asking what 
was the matter, he was taught his need of self-con- 
trol. Going up to the veteran’s room, he soothed 
him by saying that he had returned late in the night 
in response to his aunt’s telegram, and that he had 
found Grace fainting on the floor, that Mrs. May- 
burn and the servants were with her, and that a 
physician had been sent for. 

”0 Graham, Graham,” moaned the old man, 
” I fear my peerless girl is losing her mind, she has 
acted so strangely of late. It’s time you came. It’s 
time something was done, or the worst may hap- 
pen.” 

With an almost overwhelming sense of horror, 
Graham remembered how nearly the worst had hap^ 
pened, but he only said, ” Let us hope the worst has 
passed. I will bring you word from Mrs. Mayburn 
from time to time.” 

His terrible anxiety was only partially relieved, for 
his aunt said that Grace’s swoon was obstinate, and 
would not yield to the remedies she was using. 
” Come in,” she cried. ” This is no time for cere- 
mony. Take brandy and chafe her wrists.” 

What a mortal chill her cold hands gave him ! It 
was worse than when Hilland’s hands were cold in 
his. 

” O aunt, she will live ?” 

“Certainly,” was the brusque reply. “A faint- 


554 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS, 


ing turn is nothing. Come, you are cool in a 
battle : be cool now. It won’t do for us all to lose 
our wits, although Heaven knows there’s cause 
enough. 

“ How white her face and neck are !” — for Mrs. 
Mayburn had opened her wrapper at the throat, that 
she might breathe more easily, — “just as Hilland 
saw her in his dream.’’ 

“ Have done with your dreams, and omens, and 
all your weird nonsense. It’s time for a little more 
common sense. Rub her wrists gently but strongly ; 
and if she shows signs of consciousness, disappear.” 

At last she said hastily, “ Go.” 

Listening at the door, he heard Grace ask, a few 
moments later, in a faint voice, “ What has hap- 
pened ?” 

“You only fainted, deary.” 

“ Why — why — I’m in the library.” 

“Yes, you got up in your sleep, and I followed 
you ; and the doctor will soon be here, although little 
need we have of him.” 

“ O, I’ve had a fearful dream. I thought I saw 
Warren or Alford. I surely heard Alford’s voice.” 

“Yes, dear. I’ve no doubt you had a bad dream ; 
and it may be that Alford’s voice caused it, for he 
arrived late last night and has been talking with 
your father.” 

“ That must be it,” she sighed ; “ but my head is 
so confused. O, I am so glad he’s come ! When 
can I see him ?” 

“Not till after the doctor comes and you are much 
stronger. 


JUST IN' TIME. 355 

1 wish to thank him ; I can't wait to thank 
him." 

" He doesn’t want thanks, deary ; he wants you 
to get well. You owe it to him and your father to 
get well, — as well as your great and lifelong sorrow 
permits. Now, deary, take a little more stimulant, 
and then don't talk. I’ve explained everything, and 
shown you your duty ; and I know that my brave 
Grace will do it." 

" I’ll try," she said, with a pathetic weariness in 
her voice that brought a rush of tears to Graham’s 
eyes. 

Returning to Major St. John, he assured him that 
Grace had revived, and that he believed she would 
be herself hereafter. 

" O this cursed war !’’ groaned the old man ; " and 
how I have exulted in it and Warren’s career ! I had 
a blind confidence that he would come out of it a 
veteran general while yet little more than a boy. 
My ambition has been punished, punished ; and I 
may lose both the children of whom I was so proud. 
O Graham, the whole world is turning as black as 
Grace’s mourning robes." 

I have felt that way myself. But, Major, as 
soldiers we must face this thing like men. The 
doctor has come ; and I will bring him here before 
he goes, to give his report.” 

" Well, Graham, a father’s blessing on yx)u for 
going back for Warren. If Grace had been left in 
suspense as to his fate she would have gone mad in 
very truth. God only knows how it will be now ; 


35 ^ 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


but she nas a better chance in meeting and over' 
coming the sharp agony of certainty/' 

Under the physician’s remedies Grace rallied more 
rapidly ; and he said that if carried to her room she 
would soon sleep quietly. 

“ I wish to see Mr. Graham first,” she said, de- 
cisively. 

To Mrs. Mayburn’s questioning glance, he added^ 
” Gratify her. I have quieting remedies at hand.” 

” He will prove more quieting than all remedies. 
He saved my husband’s life once, and tried to do so 
again ; and I wish to tell him I never forget it night 
or day. He is brave, and strong, and tranquil ; and 
I feel that to take his hand will allay the fever in my 
brain.” 

” Grace, I am here,” he said, pushing open the 
door and bending his knee at her side while taking 
her hand. Waste no strength in thanks. School 
your broken heart into patience ; and remember how 
dear, beyond all words, your life is to others. Your 
father’s life depends on yours.” 

” I’ll try,” she again said ; ” I think I feel better, 
differently. An oppression that seemed stifling, 
crushing me, is passing away. Alford, was there no 
chance — no chance at all of saving him ?” 

” Alas ! no ; and yet it is all so much better than 
it might have been ! His grave is in a quiet, beauti- 
ful spot, which you can visit ; and fresh flowers are 
placed upon it every day. Dear Grace, compare 
your lot with that of so many others whose loved 
ones are left on the field.” 

” As he would have been were it not for you, my 


JUST IN TIME. 


357 


true, true friend,” and she carried his hand to her 
lips in passionate gratitude. Then tears gushed 
from her eyes, and she sobbed like a child. 

” Thank the good God !” ejaculated Mrs. May- 
burn. ” These are the first tears she has shed. She 
will be better now. Come, deary, you have seen 
Alford. He is to stop with us a long time, and will 
tell you everything over and over. You must sleep 
now. ” 

Graham kissed her hand and left the room, and the 
servants carried her to her apartment. Mrs. May- 
burn and the physician soon joined him in the 
library, which was haunted by a memory that would 
shake his soul to his dying day. 

The physician in a cheerful mood said, ” I now 
predict a decided change for the better. It would 
almost seem that she had had some shock which has 
broken the evil spell ; and this natural flow of tears 
is better than all the medicine in the world and 
then he and Mrs. Mayburn explained how Grace’s 
manner had been growing so strange and unnatural 
that they feared her mind was giving way. 

” I fear you were right,” Graham replied sadly; 
and he told them of the scene he had witnessed, and 
produced the vial of laudanum. 

The physician was much shocked, but Mrs. May- 
burn had already guessed the truth from her nephew’s 
words and manner when she first discovered him. 

” Neither Grace nor her father must ever know of 
this,” she said, with a shudder. 

” Certainly not ; but Dr. Markham should know. 
As her physician, he should know the whole truth.” 


35 ^ 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


“ I think that phase of her trouble has passed/' 
said the doctor, thoughtfully ; “ but, as you say, I 
must be on my guard. Pardon me, you do not 
look well yourself. Indeed, you look faint /' for 
Graham had sunk into a chair. 

“ I fear I have been losing considerable blood," 
said Graham, carelessly ; " and now that this strong 
excitement is passing, it begins to tell. I owe my 
leave of absence to a wound." 

‘‘ A wound !" cried his aunt, coming to his side. 
" Why did you not speak of it ?" 

" Indeed, there has been enough to speak of be- 
yond this trifle. Take a look at my shoulder, doc- 
tor, and do wh?^t you think best." 

" And here is enough to do," was his reply as 
soon as Graham’s shoulder was bared : "an ugly 
cut, and all broken loose by your exertions this 
evening. You must keep very quiet and have good 
care, or this reopened wound will make yoif serious 
trouble." 

“ Well, doctor, we have so much serious trouble 
on hand that a little more won’t matter much." 

His aunt inspected the wound with grim satisfac- 
tion, and then said, sententiously, " I’m glad you 
have got it, Alford, for it will keep you home and 
divert Grace’s thoughts. In these times a wound 
that leaves the heart untouched may be useful ; and 
nothing cures a woman’s trouble better than having 
to take up the troubles of others. I predict a deal 
of healing for Grace in your wound.’’ 

" All which goes to prove," added the busy phy- 


JUST IN TIME. 


359 


sician, “ that woman’s nature is different from 
man’s.” 

When he was gone, having first assured the 
major over and over again that all danger was past, 
Graham said, “ Aunt, Grace’s hair is as white as 
yours.” 

” Yes ; it turned white within a week after she 
learned the certainty of her husband’s death.” 

“Would that I could have died in Hilland’s 
place !” 

“Yes,” said the old lady, bitterly ; “you were 
always too ready to die.” 

He drew her down to him as he lay on the lounge, 
and kissed her tenderly, as he said, “ But I have 
kept my promise ‘ to live and do my best.’ ” 

“You have kept your promise to live after a 
fashion. My words have also proved true, ‘ Good 
has come of it, and more good will come of it.’ ” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


A WOUNDED SPIRIT. 

RACE’S chief symptom when she awoke on the 



VJT following morning was an extreme lassitude. 
She was almost as weak as a violent fever would 
have left her, but her former unnatural and fitful 
manner was gone. Mrs. Mayburn told Graham that 
she had had long moods of deep abstraction, during 
which her eyes would be fixed on vacancy, with a 
stare terrible to witness, and then would follow 
uncontrollable paroxysms of grief. 

“ This morning,” said her anxious nurse, ” she is 
more like a broken lily that has not strength to raise 
its head. But the weakness will pass ; she’ll rally. 
Not many die of grief, especially when young.” 

“ Save her life, aunty, and I can still do a man’s 
part in the world.” 

“ Well, Alford, you must help me.' She has been 
committed to your care ; and it’s a sacred trust.” 

Graham was now installed in his old quarters, and 
placed under Aunt Sheba’s care. His energetic 
aunt, however, promised to look in upon him often, 
and kept her word. The doctor predicted a tedious 
time with his wound, and insisted on absolute quiet 


fi WOUNDED SPIRIT. 


361 


for a few days. He was mistaken, however. Time 
would not be tedious, with frequent tidings of 
Grace’s convalescence and her many proofs of deep 
solicitude about his wound. 

Grace did rally faster than had been expected. 
Her system had received a terrible shock, but it 
had not been enfeebled by disease. With returning 
strength came an insatiate craving for action, — an 
almost desperate effort to occupy her hands and 
mind. Before it was prudent for Graham to go out 
or exert himself — for his wound had developed some 
bad symptoms — she came to see him, bringing deli- 
cacies made with her own hands. 

Never had her appearance so appealed to his 
heart. Her face had grown thin, but its lovely out- 
lines remained ; and her dark eyes seemed tenfold 
more lustrous in contrast with her white hair. She 
had now a presence that the most stolid would turn 
and look after with a wondering pity and admira- 
tion, while those gifted with a fine perception could 
scarcely see her without tears. Graham often 
thought that if she could be turned into marble she 
would make the ideal statue representing the women 
of both the contending sections whose hearts the 
war had broken. 

As she came and went, and as he eventually spent 
long hours with her and her father, she became to 
him a study of absorbing interest, in which his old 
analytical bent was not wholly wanting. “ What," 
he asked himself every hour in the day, " will be 
the effect of an experience like this on such a 
woman? what the final outcome?" There was 


362 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


in this interest no curiosity, in the vulgar sense of the 
word. It was rather the almost sleepless suspense 
of a man who has everything at stake, and who, in 
watching the struggle of another mind to cope with 
misfortune, must learn at the same time his own 
fate. It was far more than this, — it was the vigi- 
lance of one who would offer help at all times and 
at any cost. Still, so strong are natural or acquired 
characteristics that he could not do this without 
manifesting some of the traits of the Alford Graham 
who years before had studied the mirthful Grace St. 
John with the hope of analyzing her power and 
influence. And had he been wholly indifferent to 
her, and as philosophical and cynical as once it was 
his pride to think he was, she would still have re- 
mained an absorbing study. Her sudden and awful 
bereavement had struck her strong and excep- 
tional spiritual nature with the shattering force of 
the ball that crashes through muscle, bone, and 
nerves. . In the latter case the wound may be mor- 
tal, or it may cause weakness and deformity. The 
wounded spirit must survive, although the effects of 
the wound may be even more serious and far-reach- 
ing, — changing, developing, or warping character to 
a degree that even the most experienced cannot pre- 
dict. Next to God, time is the great healer ; and 
human love, guided by tact, can often achieve signal 
success. 

But for Graham there was no God ; and it must be 
said that this was becoming true of Grace also. As 
H Aland had feared, the influence of those she loved 
and trusted most had gradually sapped her faith. 


A WOUNDED SPIRIT. 


363 


which in her case had been more a cherished tradi- 
tion, received from her mother, than a vital ex- 
perience. 

Hilland’s longings for a life hereafter, and his 
words of regret that she had lost the faith of her 
girlhood, were neutralized by the bitter revolt of her 
spirit against her immeasurable misfortune. Her 
own experience was to her a type of all the desolating 
evil and sorrow of the world ; and in her agony she 
could not turn to a God who permitted such evil and 
suffering. It seemed to her that there could be no 
merciful, overruling Providence, — that her husband’s 
view, when his mind was in its most vigorous and 
normal state, was more rational than a religion which 
taught that a God who loved good left evil to make 
such general havoc. 

“ It’s the same blind contention of forces in men 
as in nature,” she said to herself ; “and only the 
strong or the fortunate survive.” 

One day she asked Graham abruptly, “ Do you 
believe that the human spirit lives on after death ?” 

He was sorely troubled to know how to answer 
her, but after a little hesitation said, “ I feel, as 
your husband did, that I should be glad if you had 
the faith of your girlhood. I think it would be a 
comfort to you.” 

“That’s truly the continental view, that supersti- 
tion is useful to women. Will you not honestly 
treat me as your equal, and tell me what you, as an 
educated man, believe?” 

“No,” he replied, gravely and sadly, “ I will only 
recall with emphasis your husband’s last words*” 


3^4 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


“You are loyal to him, at least ; and I respect 
you for it. But I know what you believe, and what 
Warren believed when his faculties were normal and 
unbiassed by the intense longing of his heart. I am 
only a woman, Alford, but I must use such little 
reason as I have ; and no being except one created 
by man’s ruthless imagination could permit the suf- 
fering which this war daily entails. It’s all of the 
earth, earthy. Alford,’’ she added, in low, passion- 
ate utterance, “I could believe in a devil more 
easily than in a God ; and yet my unbelief sinks me 
into the very depths of a hopeless desolation. What 
am I ? A mere little atom among these mighty 
forces and passions which rock the world with their 
violence. O, I was so happy ! and now I am crushed 
by some hap-hazard bullet shot in the darkness.’’ 

He looked at her wonderingly, and was silent. 

“ Alford,’’ she continued, her eyes glowing in the 
excitement of her strong, passionate spirit, “ I will 
not succumb to all this monstrous evil. If I am 
but a transient emanation of the earth, and must 
soon return to my kindred dust, still I can do a little 
to diminish the awful aggregate of suffering. 'My 
nature, earth-born as it is, revolts at a selfish indif- 
ference to it all. O, if there is a God, why does He 
not rend the heavens in His haste to stay the black 
torrents of evil ? Why does He not send the angels 
of whom my mother told me when a child, and bid 
them stand between the armies that are desolating 
thousands of hearts like mine ? Or if He chooses to 
work by silent, gentle influences like those of spring, 
why does He not bring human hearts together that are 


A WOUNDED SPIRIT, 


36s 

akin, and enhance the content and happiness which 
our brief life permits? But no. Unhappy mis- 
takes are made. Alas, my friend, we both know it 
to our sorrow ! Why should I feign ignorance of 
that which your unbounded and unselfish devotion 
has proved so often? Why should you not know 
that before this deadly stroke fell my one grief was 
that you suffered ; and that as long as I could pray I 
prayed for your happiness ? Now I cTan see only 
merciless force or blind chance, that in nature smites 
with the tornado the lonely forest or the thriving 
village, the desolate waves or some ship upon them. 
Men, with all their boasted reason, are even worse. 
What could be more mad and useless than this war ? 
Alford. I alone have suffered enough to make the 
thing accursed ; and I must suffer to the end : and I 
am only one of countless women. What is there for 
me, what for them, but to grow lonelier and sadder 
every day? But I won’t submit to the evil. I 
won’t be a mere bit of helpless drift. While I live 
there shall be a little less suffering in the world. Ah, 
Alford ! you see how far removed I am from the 
sportive girl you saw on that May evening years ago. 

I am an old, white-haired, broken-hearted woman ; 
and yet,” with a grand look in her eyes, she con- 
cluded, “ I have spirit enough left to take up arms 
against all the evil and suffering within my reach. 
I know how puny my efforts will be ; but I would 
rather try to push back an avalanche than cower 
before it.” 

Thus she revealed to him the workings of her mind ; 
/ind he worshipped her anew as one of the gentlest 


366 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


and most loving of women, and yet possessed of a 
nature so strong that under the guidance of reason it 
could throw off the shackles of superstition and defy 
even fate. Under the spell of her words the evil of 
the world did seem an avalanche, not of snow, but 
of black molten lava ; while she, too brave and noble 
to cower and cringe, stood before it, her little hand 
outstretched to stay its deadly onset. 


j 


X 








CHAPTER XXXIII. 


THE WHITE-HAIRED NURSE. 

IFE at the two cottages w^s extremely secluded 



J ' All who felt entitled to do so made callsj 
partly of condolence and partly from curiosity. The 
occupants of the two unpretending dwellings had 
the respect of the community ; but from their rather 
unsocial ways could not be popular. The old major 
had ever detested society in one of its phases, — that 
is, the claims of mere vicinage, the duty to call and 
be called upon by people who live near, when there 
is scarcely a thought or taste in common. With his 
Southern and army associations he had drifted to a 
New England city ; but he ignored the city except 
as it furnished friends and things that pleased him. 
His attitude was not contemptuous or unneighborly, 
but simply indifferent. 

“ I don't thrust my life on any one,” he once said 
to Mrs. Mayburn, ” except you and Grace. Why 
should other people thrust their lives on me ?” 

His limited income had required economy, and his 
infirmities a life free from annoyance. As has been 
shown, Grace had practised the one with heart as 
light as her purse ; and had interposed her own 


368 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


sweet self between the irritable veteran and every- 
thing that could vex him. The calling world had 
had its revenge. The major was profane, they had 
said ; Grace was proud, or led a slavish life. The most 
heinous sin of all was, they were poor. There were 
several families, however, whom Grace and the 
major had found congenial, with various shades of 
difference ; and the young girl had never lacked all 
the society she cared for. Books had been her chief 
pleasure ; the acquaintance of good whist-players 
had been cultivated*; army and Southern friends 
had appeared occasionally ; and when Mrs. Mayburn 
had become a neighbor, she had been speedily 
adopted into the closest intimacy. When Hilland 
had risen above their horizon he soon glorified the 
world to Grace. To the astonishment of society, she 
had married a millionnaire, and they had all con- 
tinued to live as quietly and unostentatiously as be- 
fore. There had been another slight effort to “ know 
the people at the St. John cottage,” but it had 
speedily died out. The war had brought chiefly 
military associations and absence. Now again there 
was an influx of callers, largely from the church 
that Grace had once attended. Mrs. Mayburn re- 
ceived the majority with a grim politeness, but 
discriminated very favorably in case of those who 
came solely from honest sympathy. All were made 
to feel, however, that, like a mourning veil, sorrow 
should shield its victims from uninvited observation. 

Hilland’s mother had long been dead, and his 
father died at the time when he was summoned from 
his studies in Germany. While on good terms with 


THE WHITE-HAIRED NURSE. 


369 


his surviving relatives, there had been no very close 
relationship or intimacy remaining. Grace had 
declared that she wished no other funeral service 
than the one conducted by the good old Confeder- 
ate pastor ; and the relatives, learning that they had 
no interest in the will, speedily discovered that they 
had no further interest whatever. Thus the inmates 
of the two cottages were left to pursue their own 
shadowed paths, with little interference from the 
outside world. The major treasured a few cordial 
eulogies of Hilland cut from the journals at the 
time ; and except in the hearts wherein he was en- 
shrined a living image, the brave, genial, high-souled 
man passed from men’s thoughts and memories, 
like thousands of others in that long harvest of 
death. 

Graham’s wound at last was well-nigh healed, and 
the time was drawing near for his return to the 
army. His general had given such a very favor- 
able account 'of the circumstances attending his 
offence, and of his career as a soldier both before 
and after the affair, that the matter was quietly 
ignored. Moreover, Hilland, as a soldier and by 
reason of the loyal use of his wealth, stood very 
high in the estimation of the war authorities ; and 
the veteran major was not without his surviving 
circle of influential friends. Graham, therefore, not 
only retained his rank, but was marked for pro- 
motion. 

Of all this, however, he thought and cared little. 
If he had loved Grace before, he idolized her now. 
And yet with all her deep affection for him. and her 


370 HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 

absolute trust, she seemed more remote than ever. 
In the new phase of her grief she was ever seeking to 
do little things which she thought would please him. 
But this was also true of her course toward Mrs, 
Mayburn, especially so toward her father, and also, 
to a certain extent, toward the poor and sick in the 
vicinity. Her one effort seemed to be to escape 
from her thoughts, herself, in a ceaseless ministry to 
others. And the effort sometimes degenerated into 
restlessness. There was such a lack of repose in 
her manner that even those who loved her most 
were pained and troubled. There was not enough 
to keep her busy all the time, and yet she was ever 
impelled to do something. 

One day she said to Graham, “ I wish I could go 
back with you to the war ; not that I wish to shed 
another drop of blood, but I would like to march,, 
march forever.’' 

Shrewd Mrs. Mayburn, who had been watching 
Grace closely for the last week or two, said quietly, 
“ Take her back with you, Alford. Let her be- 
come a nurse in some hospital. It will do both her 
and a lot of poor fellows a world of good.” 

‘‘ Mrs. Mayburn, you have thought of just the 
thing,” cried Grace. ” In a hospital full of sick 
and wounded men I could make my life amount to 
something ; I should never need to be idle then.” 

“Yes, you would. You would be under orders 
like Alford, and would have to rest when off duty. 
But, as you say, you could be of great service, in- 
stead of wasting your energy in coddling two old 
people. You might save many a poor fellow’s life.” 


THE WHITE-HAIRED NURSE. 


371 


" O,” she exclaimed, clasping her hands, “the 
bare thought of saving one poor woman from such 
suffering as mine is almost overwhelming. But how 
can I leave papa ?“ 

ril take care of the major and insure his con- 
sent. If men are so possessed to make wounds, it’s 
time women did more to cure them. It’s all set- 
tled : you are to go. I’ll see the major about it now, 
if he has ]\ist begun his newspaper;’’ and the old 
lady took her knitting and departed with her wonted 
prompt energy. 

At first Graham was almost speechless from sur- 
prise, mingled doubt and pleasure; but the more he 
thought of it, the more he was convinced that the 
plan was an inspiration. 

“Alford, you will, take me?’’ she said, appeal- 
ingly. 

“ Yes,’’ he replied, smilingly, “ if you will promise 
to obey my orders in part, as well as those of your 
superiors.’’ 

“ I’ll promise anything if you will only take me. 
Am I not under your care ?’ ' 

“ O Grace, Grace, I can do so little for you !’’ 

“ No one living can do more. In providing this 
chance of relieving a little pain, of preventing a lit- 
tle suffering, you help me, you serve me, you com- 
fort me, as no one else could. And, Alford, if you 
are wounded, come to the hospital where I am ; I will 
never leave you till you are well. Take me to some 
exposed place in the field, where there is danger, 
where men are brought in desperately wounded, 
where you would be apt to be.” 


372 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


“ I don’t know where I shall be, but I would 
covet any wound that would bring you to my side 
as nurse.” 

She thought a few moments, and then said reso- 
lutely, “ I will keep as near to you as I can. I ask no 
pay for my services. On the contrary, I will employ 
my useless wealth in providing for exposed hospi- 
tals. When I attempt to take care of the sick or 
wounded, I will act scrupulously under the orders of 
the surgeon in charge ; but I do not see why, if I 
pay my own way, 1 cannot come and go as I think I 
can be the most useful.” 

” Perhaps you could, to a certain extent, if you 
had a permit,” said Graham, thoughtfully ; ” but I 
think you would accomplish more by remaining in 
one hospital and acquiring skill by regular work. 
It would be a source of indescribable anxiety to me 
to think of your going about alone. If I know just 
where you are, I can find you and write to you.” 

” I will do just what you wish,” she said, gently. 

” I wish for only what is best for you.” 

” I know that. It would be strange if I did not.’* 

Mrs. Mayburn was not long in convincing the 
major that her plan might be the means of incalcu- 
lable benefit to Grace as well as to others. He, as 
well as herself and Graham, had seen with deep anx- 
iety that Grace was giving way to a fever of unrest ; 
and he acquiesced in the view that it might better 
run its course in wholesome and useful activity, amid 
scenes of suffering that might tend to reconcile her 
to her own sorrow. 

Graham, however, took the precaution of calling 


THE WH/TE-HAIRED NURSE. 


373 


on Dr. Markham, who, to his relief, heartily ap- 
proved of the measure. On one point Graham was~ 
firm. He would not permit her to go to a hospital 
in the field, liable to vicissitudes from sudden move- 
ments of the contending armies. He found one for 
her, however, in which she would have ample scope 
for all her efforts ; and before he left he interested 
those in charge so deeply in the white-haired nurse 
that he felt she would always be under watchful, 
friendly eyes. 

“ Grace," he said, as he was taking leave, " I 
have tried to be a true friend to you." 

" O Alford !" she exclaimed, and she seized 
his hand and held it in both of hers. 

His face grew stern rather than tender as he 
added, " You will not be a true friend to me — you 
will wrong me deeply — if you are reckless of your 
health and strength. Remember that, like myself, 
you have entered the service, and that you are 
pledged to do your duty, and not to work with 
feverish zeal until your strength fails. You are just 
as much under obligation to take essential rest as to 
care for the most sorely wounded in your ward. I 
shall take the advice I give. Believing that I am 
somewhat essential to your welfare and the happi 
ness of those whom we have left at home, I shall in- 
cur no risks beyond those which properly fall to my 
lot. I ask you to be equally conscientious and con- 
siderate of those whose lives are bound up in you." 

" ril try," she said, with that same pathetic look 
and utteVance which had so moved him on the fear- 
ful night of his return from the army. ‘ ‘ But, Alford, 


574 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


do not speak to me so gravely, I had almost said 
sternly, just as we are saying good-by/’ 

He raised her hand to his lips, and smiled into her 
pleading face as he replied, “ I only meant to im- 
press you with the truth that you have a patient who 
is not in your ward, — one who will often be sleeping 
under the open sky, I know not where. Care a 
little for him, as well as for the unknown men in 
your charge. This you can do only by taking care 
of yourself. You, of all others, should know that 
there are wounds besides those which will bring 
men to this hospital.” 

Tears rushed into her eyes as she faltered, “You 
could not have made a stronger appeal.” 

“You will write to me often ?” 

“Yes, and you cannot write too often. O Alford, 
I cannot wish you had never seen me ; but it 
would have been far, far better for you if you had 
not.” 

“No, no,” he said, in low, strong emphasis. 
“ Grace Hilland, I would rather be your friend than 
have the love of any woman that ever lived.” 

“You do yourself great wrong (pardon me for 
saying it, but your happiness is so dear to me), you 
do yourself great wrong. A girl like Pearl Anderson 
could make you truly happy ; and you could make 
her happy. ” 

Sweet little Pearl will be happy some day ; and 
I may be one of the causes, but not in the way you 
suggest. It is hard to say good-by and leave you 
here alone, and every moment I stay only makes it 
harder. 


THE WHITE-HAIRED NURSE. 375 

He raised her hand once more to his lips, then 
almost rushed away. 

Days lapsed into weeks, and weeks into months. 
The tireless nurse alleviated suffering of every kind ; 
and her silvery hair was like a halo around a saintly 
head to many a poor fellow. She had the deep 
solace of knowing that not a few wives and mothers 
would have mourned had it not been for her faith- 
fulness. 

But her own wound would not heal. She some- 
times felt that she was slowly bleeding to death. 
The deep, dark tide of suffering, in spite of all she 
could do, grew deeper and darker ; and she was 
growing weary and discouraged. 

Graham saw her at rare intervals ; and although 
she brightened greatly at his presence, and made 
heroic efforts to satisfy him that she was doing well, 
he grew anxious and depressed. But there was 
nothing tangible, nothing definite. She was only a 
little paler, a little thinner ; and when he spoke of it 
she smilingly told him that he was growing gaunt 
himself with his hard campaigning. 

“ But you, Grace," he complained, "are begin- 
ning to look like a wraith that may vanish some 
moonlight riight. ’’ 

Her letters were frequent, sometimes even cheer- 
ful, but brief. He wrote at great length, filling his 
pages with descriptions of nature, with scenes that 
were often humorous but not trivial, with genuine 
life, but none of its froth. Life for both had become 
too deep a tragedy for any nonsense. He passed 
through many dangers, but these, as far as possi- 


576 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


ble, he kept in the background ; and fate, pitying 
his one deep wound, spared him any others. 

At last there came the terrible battle of the 
Wilderness, and the wards w^re filled with desper- 
ately wounded men. The poor nurse gathered up 
her failing powers for one more effort ; and Con- 
federate and Union men looked after her wonder- 
ingly and reverently, even in their mortal weakness. 
To many she seemed like a ministering spirit rather 
than a woman of flesh and blood ; and lips of dying 
men blessed her again and again. But they brought 
no blessing. She only shuddered and grew more 
faint of heart as the scenes of agony and death 
increased. Each wound was a type of Hilland’s 
wound, and in every expiring man she saw her hus- 
band die. Her poor little hands trembled now as 
she sought to stem the black, black tide that deep- 
ened and broadened and foamed around her. 

Late one night, after a new influx of the wounded, 
she was greatly startled while passing down her ward 
by hearing a voice exclaim, “ Grace, — Grace Brent- 
ford !’* 

It was her mother’s name. 

The call was repeated ; and she tremblingly ap- 
proached a cot on which was lying a gray-haired 
man. 

“ Great God !” he exclaimed, “ am I dreaming? 
am I delirious ? How is it that I see before me the 
woman I loved forty-odd years ago ? You cannot 
be Grace Brentford, for she died long years since.” 

” No, but I am her daughter.” 

” Her daughter !” said the man, struggling to rise 


THE WHITE-HAIRED NURSE. 

upon his elbow, — “ her daughter ! She should not 
look older than you.” 

” Alas, sir, my age is not the work of time, but of 
grief. I grew old in a day. But if you knew and 
loved my mother, you have sacred claims upon me. 
I am a nurse in this ward, and will devote myself to 
you.” 

The man sank back exhausted. ” This is strange, 
strange indeed,” he said. ” It is God’s own prov- 
idence. Yes, my child, I loved your mother, and 
I love her still. Harry St. John won her fairly ; but 
he could not have loved her better than I. I am 
now a lonely old man, dying, I believe, in my 
enemy’s hands, but I thank God that I’ve seen Grace 
Brentford’s child, and that she can soothe my last 
houre. ” 

” Do not feel so discouraged about yourself,” said 
Grace, her tears falling fast. ” Think rather that 
you have been brought here that I might nurse you 
back to life. Believe me, I will do so with tender, 
loving care.” 

” How strange it all is !” the man said again. 
“You have her very voice, her manner. But it was 
by your eyes that I recognized you. Your eyes are 
young and beautiful like hers, and full of tears, as 
hers were when she sent me away with an ache in 
my heart that has never ceased. It will soon be 
cured now. Your father will remember a wild 
young planter down in Georgia by the name of Phil 
Harkness. ” 

” Indeed, sir, I’ve heard both of my parents speak 
of you, and it was ever with respect and esteem.” 


378 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


“ Give my greeting to your father, and say I never 
bore him any ill-will. In the saddest life there is 
always some compensation. I have had wealth and 
honors ; I am a colonel in our army, and have been 
able to serve the cause I loved ; but, chief of all, the 
child of Grace Brentford is by my side at the end. 
Is your name Grace also ?” 

“Yes. O, why is the world so full of hopeless 
trouble ?“ 

“Not hopeless trouble, my child. I am not hope- 
less. -' For long years I have had peace, if not hap- 
piness, — a deep inward calm which the confusion 
and roar of the bloodiest battles could not disturb. 

I can close my eyes now in my final sleep as quietly 
as a child. In a few hours, my dear, I may see your 
mother ; and I shall tell her that I left her child as- 
suaging her own sorrow by ministering to others.” 

“ Oh, oh !” sobbed Grace, “ pray cease, or I 
shall not be fit for my duties ; your words pierce my 
very soul. Let me nurse you back to health. Let 
me take you to my home until you are exchanged, 
for I must return. I must, must. My strength is 
going fast ; and you bring before me my dear old 
father whom I have left too long.” 

“ My poor child ! God comfort and sustain you. 
Do not let me keep you longer from your duties, and 
from those who need you more than 1. Come and 
say a word to me when you can. That’s all I ask. 
My wound was dressed before your watch began, 
and I am doing as well as I could expect When 
you feel like it, you can tell me more about your- 
self.” 


THE WHITE-HAIRED NURSE. 


379 


Their conversation had been in a low tone as she 
sat beside him, the patients near either sleeping or 
too preoccupied by their own sufferings to give 
much heed. 

Weary and oppressed by bitter despondency, she 
went from cot to cot, attending to the wants of 
those in her charge. To her the old colonel’s sad 
history seemed a mockery of his faith, and but 
another proof of a godless or God-forgotten world. 
She envied his belief, with its hope and peace ; but 
he had only increased her unbelief. But all through 
the long night she watched over him, coming often 
to his side with delicacies and wine, and with gentle 
words that were far more grateful. 

Once, as she was smoothing back his gray locks 
from his damp forehead, he smiled, and murmured, 
“ God bless you, my child. This is a foretaste of 
heaven.” 

In the gray dawn she came to him and said, ” My 
watch is over, and I must leave you for a little while ; 
but as soon as I have rested I will come again.” 

” Grace,” he faltered, hesitatingly, ” would you 
mind kissing an old, old man ? I never had a child 
of my own to kiss me.” 

She stooped down and kissed him again and again, 
and he felt her hot tears upon his face. 

” You have a tender heart, my dear,” he said, 
gently. ” Good-by, Grace, — Grace Brentford’s child. 
Dear Grace, when we meet again perhaps all tears 
will be wiped from your eyes forever.” 

She stole away exhausted and almost despairing. 
On reaching her little room she sank on her couch 


380 


HIS SOMBRE rivals. 


moaning, “ O Warren, Warren, would that I were 
sleeping your dreamless sleep beside you !” 

Long before it was time for her to go on duty 
again she returned to the ward to visit her aged 
friend. His cot was empty. In reply to her eager 
question she was told that he had died suddenly 
from internal hemorrhage soon after she had left 
him. 

She looked dazed for a moment, as if she had 
received a blow, then fell fainting on the cot from 
which her mother’s friend had been taken. The 
limit of her endurance was passed. 

Before the day closed, the surgeon in charge of 
the hospital told her gently and firmly that she 
must take an indefinite leave of absence. She 
departed at once in the care of an attendant ; but 
stories of the white-haired nurse lingered so long in 
the ward and hospital that at last they began to 
grow vague and marvellous like the legends of a 
saint. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

RITA’S BROTHER. 


LL through the campaign of ’64 the crimso-/j 



tide of war deepened and broadened. Even 
Graham's cool and veteran spirit was appalled at 
the awful slaughter on either side. The Army of 
the Potomac — the grandest army ever organized, 
and always made more sublime and heroic by defeat 
— was led by a man as remorseless as fate. He was 
fate to thousands of loyal men, whom he placed 
at will as coolly as if they had been the pieces on 
a chess-board. He was fate to the Confederacy, 
upon whose throat he placed his iron grasp, never 
relaxed until life was extinct. In May, 1864, 
he quietly crossed the Rapidan for the death- 
grapple. He took the most direct route for Rich- 
mond, ignoring all obstacles and the fate of his 
predecessors. To think that General Grant wished 
to fight the battle of the Wilderness is pure idiocy. 
One would almost as soon choose the Dismal Swamp 
for a battle-ground. It was undoubtedly his hope to 
pass beyond that gloomy tangle, over which the 
shadow of death had brooded ever since fatal Chan- 
cellorsville. But Lee, his brilliant and vigilant op 


3S2 


ms SOMBRE RIVALS. 


ponent, rarely lost an advantage ; and Graham 
experienced eye, as with the cavalry he was in the 
extreme advance, clearly saw that their position 
would give their foes enormous advantages. Lee's 
movements would be completely masked by the 
almost impervious growth. He and his lieutenants 
could approach within striking distance, whenever 
they chose, without being seen, and had little to fear 
from the L?hion artillery, which the past had given 
them much cause to dread. It was a region also to 
disgust the very soul of a cavalry man ; for the low, 
scrubby growth lined the narrow roads almost as 
effectually as’ the most scientifically prepared abatis, 

Graham's surmise was correct. Lee would not 
wait till his antagonist had reached open and favor- 
able ground, but he made an attack at once, where, 
owing to peculiarities of position, one of his thin 
regiments had often the strength of a brigade. 

On the morning of the 5th of May began one of 
the most awful and bloody battles in the annals of 
warfare. Indeed it was the beginning of one long 
and almost continuous struggle which ended only 
at Appomattox. 

With a hundred thousand more, Graham was 
swept into the bloody vortex, and through summer 
heat, autumn rains, and winter cold, he marched 
and fought with little rest. He was eventually given 
the colonelcy of his regiment, and at times com- 
manded a brigade. He passed through unnumbered 
dangers unscathed ; and his invulnerability became a 
proverb among his associates. Indeed he was a 
mystery to them, for his face grew sadder and sterner 


RITA'S BROTHER. 


383 


every day, and his reticence about himself and all 
his affairs was often remarked upon. His men and 
officers had unbounded respect for him, that was not 
wholly unmixed with fear ; for while he was consider- 
ate, and asked for no exposure to danger in which 
he did not share, his steady discipline was never 
relaxed, and he kept himself almost wholly aloof, 
except as their military relations required contact. 
He could not, therefore, be popular among the hard- 
swearing, rollicking, and convivial cavalry men. In 
a long period of inaction he might have become 
very unpopular, but the admirable manner in which 
he led them in action, and his sagacious care of them 
and their horses on the march and in camp, led 
them to trust him implicitly. Chief of all, he had 
acquired that which with the stern veterans of that 
day went -farther than anything else, — a reputation 
for dauntless courage. What they objected to were 
his “ glum looks and unsocial ways,” as they termed 
them. 

They little knew that his cold, stern face hid suf- 
fering that was growing almost desperate in its inten- 
sity. They little knew that he was chained to his 
military duty as to a rock, while a vulture of anxiety 
was eating out his very heart. What was a pale, 
thin, white-haired woman to them ? But what to 
him ? How true it is that often the heaviest burdens 
of life are those at which the world would laugh, and 
of which the overweighted heart cannot and will not 
speak ! 

For a long time after his plunge into the dreary 
depths of the Wilderness he had received no letters. 


3^4 


ms SOMBRE R I FA ' S. 


Then he had learned of Grace’s return home ; and at 
first he was glad indeed. His aunt had written 
nothing more alarming than that Grace had over- 
taxed her strength in caring for the throngs of 
wounded men sent from the Wilderness, that she 
needed rest and good tonic treatment. Then came 
word that she was “ better then they “ hoped 
she was gaining then they were about to go to 
“ the sea-shore, and Grace had always improved in 
salt air.” It was then intimated that she had found 
“the summer heat very enervating, and now that 
fall winds were blowing she would grow stronger.” 
At last, at the beginning of winter, it was admitted 
that she had not improved as they had hoped ; but 
they thought she was holding her own very well, — 
that the continued and terrific character of the war 
oppressed her, — and that every day she dreaded to 
hear that he had been stricken among other thou- 
sands. 

Thus little by little, ever softened by some excuse 
or some hope, the bitter truth grew plain : Grace 
was failing, fading, threatening to vanish. He 
wrote as often as he could, and sought with all his 
skill to cheer, sustain, and reconcile her to life. At 
first she wrote to him not infrequently, but her 
letters grew farther and farther apart, and at last 
she wrote, in the early spring of ’65 : 

” I wish I could see you, Alford ; but I know it is 
impossible. You are strong, you are doing much 
to end this awful war, and it’s your duty to remain at 
3^our post. You must not sully 3^our perfect image in 
my mind, or add to my unhappiness by leaving the 


RITA'S BROTHER. 


385 


service now for my sake. I have learned the one 
bitter lesson of the times. No matter how much per- 
sonal agony, physical or mental, is involved, the war 
must go on ; and each one must keep his place in the 
ranks till he falls or is disabled. I have fallen. I am 
disabled. My wound will not close, and drop by 
drop life and strength are ebbing. I know I disap- 
point you, my true, true friend ; but I cannot help it. 
Do not reproach me. Do not blame me too harshly. 
Think me weak, as I truly am. Indeed, when I am 
gone your chances will be far better. It costs me a 
great effort to write this. There is a weight on my 
hand and brain as well as on my heart. Hereafter 
I will send my messages through dear, kind Mrs. 
Mayburn, who has been a mother to me in all my 
sorrow. Do not fear : I will wait till you can come 
with honor ; for I must see you once more." 

For a long time after receiving this letter a despair 
fell on Graham. He was so mechanical in the per- 
formance of his duties that his associates wondered 
at him, and he grew more gaunt and haggard than 
ever. Then in sharp reaction came a feverish eager- 
ness to see the war ended. 

Indeed all saw that the end was near, and none, 
probably, more clearly than the gallant and indom- 
itable Lee himself. At last the Confederate army 
was outflanked, the lines around Petersburg were 
broken through, and the final pursuit began. It was 
noted that Graham fought and charged with an 
almost tiger-like fierceness ; and for once his men 
said with reason that he had no mercy on them. 
He was almost counting the hours until the time 


386 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS, 


when he could sheathe his sword and say with 
honor, “ I resign.'" 

One morning they struck a large force of the 
enemy, and he led a headlong charge. For a time 
the fortunes of the battle wavered, for the Con- 
federates fought with the courage of desperation. 
Graham on his powerful horse soon became a con- 
spicuous object, and all gave way before him as if he 
were a messenger of death, at the same time wonder- 
ing at his invulnerability. 

The battle surged on and forward until the enemy 
were driven into a thick piece of woods. Graham on 
the right of his line directed his bugler to give the 
order to dismount, and a moment later his line of 
battle plunged into the forest. In the desperate 
meUe that followed in the underbrush, he was lost to 
sight except to a few of his men. It was here that 
he found himself confronted by a Confederate officer, 
from whose eyes flashed the determination either to 
slay or to be slain. Graham had crossed swords with 
him but a moment when he recognized that he had 
no ordinary antagonist ; and with his instinct of fight 
aroused to its highest pitch he gave himself up 
wholly to a personal and mortal combat, shouting 
meantime to those near, “ Leave this man to me.” 

Looking his opponent steadily in the eye, like a 
true swordsman, he remained first on the defensive ; 
and such was his skill that his long, straight blade 
was a shield as well as a weapon. Suddenly the 
dark eyes and features of his opponent raised before 
him the image of Rita Anderson ; and he was so 
overcome for a second that the Confederate touched 


RITA^S BROTHER. 


387 


his breast with his sabre, and drew blood. That 
sharp prick and the thought that Rita’s brother 
might be before him aroused every faculty and 
power of his mind and body. His sword was a 
shield again, and he shouted, “ Is not your name 
Henry Anderson ?" 

“ My name is our cause,” was the defiant answer ; 
” with it I will live or die.” 

Then came upon Graham one of those rare 
moments in his life when no mortal man could stand 
before him. Ceasing his wary, rapid fence, his sword 
played like lightning ; and in less than a moment 
the Confederate’s sabre flew from his hand, and he 
stood helpless. 

” Strike, ” he said, sullenly; ” I won’t surrender.” 

“I’d sooner cut off my right hand,” replied 
Graham, smiling upon him, ” than strike the brother 
of Rita Anderson.” 

‘‘Is your name Graham?” asked his opponent, 
his aspect changing instantly. 

‘‘Yes; and you are Henry. I saw your sister’s 
eyes in yours. Take up your sword, and go quietly 
to the rear as my friend, not prisoner. I adjure 
you, by the name of your old and honored father 
and your noble-hearted sister, to let me keep my 
promise to them to save your life, were it ever in my 
power. 

‘‘ I yield,” said the young man, in deep despond- 
ency. ” Our cause A lost, and you are the only man 
in the North to whom I should be willing to sur- 
render. Colonel, I will obey your orders.” 

Summoning his orderly and another soldier, he 


3^8 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


said to them, “ Escort this gentleman to the rear. 
Let him keep his arms I have too much confi- 
dence in you, Colonel Anderson, even to ask that 
you promise not to escape. Treat him with respect. 
He will share my quarters to-night.” And then he 
turned and rushed onward to overtake the extreme 
advance of his line, wondering at the strange scene 
which had passed with almost the rapidity of 
thought. 

That night by Graham's camp-fire began a friend- 
ship between himself and Henry Anderson which 
would be lifelong. The latter asked, ” Have you 
heard from my father and sister since you parted 
with them ?” 

” No. My duties have carried me far away from 
that region. But it is a source of unspeakable grati- 
fication that we have met, and that you can tell me 
of their welfare. ” 

” It does seem as if destiny, or, as father would 
say. Providence, had linked my fortunes and those of 
my family with you. He and Rita would actually 
have suffered with hunger but for you. Since you 
were there the region has been tramped and fought 
over by the forces of both sides, and swept bare. 
My father mentioned your name and that of Colonel 
Hilland ; and a guard was placed over his house, and 
he and Rita were saved from any personal annoyance. 
But all of his slaves, except the old woman you 
remember, were either run off or enticed away, and 
his means of livelihood practically destroyed. Old 
Uncle Jehu and his son Huey have almost supported 
them. They, simple souls, could not keep your 


RITA'S BROTHER. 


389 


Secret, though they tried to after their clumsy 
fashion. My pay, you know, was almost worthless ; 
and indeed there was little left for them to buy. 
Colonel Graham, I am indebted to you for far more 
than life, which has become well-nigh a burden to 
me." 

“ Life has brought far heavier burdens to others 
than to you. Colonel Anderson. Those you love are 
living ; and to provide for and protect such a father 
and sister as you possess might well give zest to any 
life. Your cause is lost ; and the time may come 
sooner than you expect when you will be right glad 
of it. I know you cannot think so now, and we will 
not dwell on this topic. I can testify from four 
years’ experience that no cause was ever defended 
with higher courage or more heroic self-sacrifice. 
But your South is not lost ; and it will be the fault 
of its own people if it does not work out a grander 
destiny within the Union than it could ever achieve 
alone. But don’t let us discuss politics. You have 
the same right to your views that I have to mine. 
I will tell you how much I owe to your father and 
sister, and then you will see that the burden of 
obligation rests upon me and he gave his own 
version of that memorable day whose consequences 
threatened to culminate in Grace Hilland’s death. 

Under the dominion of this thought he could not 
hide the anguish of his mind ; and Rita had hinted 
enough in her letters to enable Anderson to com- 
prehend his new-found friend. He took Graham’s 
hand, and as he wrung it he said, “ Yes, life has 
brought to others heavier burdens than to me.’’ 


390 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


“You may have thought,” resumed Graham, 
“ that I fought savagely to-day ; but I felt that it is 
best for all to end this useless, bloody struggle as soon 
as possible. As for myself. I’m just crazed with anx- 
iety to get away and return home. Of course we can- 
not be together after to-night, for with the dawn I 
must be in the saddle. To-night you shall share my 
blankets. You must let me treat you as your father 
and Rita treated me. I will divide my money with 
you : don’t grieve me by objecting. Call.it a loan if 
you will. Your currency is now worthless. You 
must go with the other prisoners ; but 1 can soon 
obtain your release on parole, and then, in the name 
of all that is sacred, return home to those who idol- 
ize you. Do this. Colonel Anderson, and you will 
lift a heavy burden from one already overweighted.” 

“ As you put the case I cannot do otherwise,” was 
the sad reply. “ Indeed I have no heart for any 
more useless fighting. My duty now is clearly to 
my father and sister.” 

That night the two men slumbered side by side, 
and in the dawn parted more like brothers than like 
foes. 

As Graham had predicted, but a brief time elapsed 
before Lee surrendered, and Colonel Anderson’s 
liberty on parole was soon secured. They parted 
with the assurance that they would meet again as 
soon as circumstances would permit. 

At the earliest hour in which he could depart 
with honor, Graham’s urgent entreaty secured him 
a leave of absence ; and he lost not a moment in 
his return, sending to his aunt in advance a tele- 
gram to announce his coming. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 

N ever had his noble horse Mayburn seemed 
to fail him until the hour that severed the 
military chain which had so long bound him to inex- 
orable duty, and yet the faithful beast was carrying 
him like the wind. . Iss, his servant, soon fell so far 
behind that Graham paused and told him to come on 
more leisurely, that Mayburn would be at the ter- 
minus of the military railroad. And there Iss found 
him, with drooping head and white with foam. The 
steam-engine was driven to City Point with the 
reckless speed characteristic of military railroads ; but 
to Graham the train seemed to crawl. He caught a 
steamer bound for Washington, and paced the deck, 
while in the moonlight the dark shores of the James 
looked stationary. From Washington the lightning 
express was in his view more dilatory than the most 
lumbering stage of the old regime. • 

When at last he reached the gate to his aunt's 
cottage and walked swiftly up the path, the hour and 
the scene were almost the same as when he had first 
come, an indifferent stranger, long years before. The 
fruit-trees were as snowy white with blossoms, the air 


392 HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 

as fragrant, the birds singing as jubilantly, as when 
he had staod‘»at the window and gazed with critical 
admiration bn a sportive girl, a child-woman, playing 
with her little Spitz dog. As he passed the spot 
where she had stood, beneath his ambush behind the 
curtains, his excited mind brought back her image 
with life-like realism, — the breeze in her light hair, 
her dark eyes brimming with mirth, her bosom pant- 
ing from her swift advance, and the color of the red 
rose in her cheeks. 

He groaned as he thought of her now. 

His aunt saw him from the window, and a moment 
later was sobbing on his breast. 

“ Aunt,” he. gasped, ” I’m not too late?” 

” O, no,” she said, wearily ; ” Grace is alive ; but 
one can scarcely say much more. Alford, you must 
be prepared for a sad change.” 

He placed her in her chair, and stood before her 
with heaving breast. ” Now tell me all,” he said, 
hoarsely. 

” O Alford, you frighten me. You must be more 
composed. You cannot see Grace, looking and 
feeling as you do. She is weakness itself ;” and she 
told him how the idol of his heart was slowly, grad- 
ually, but inevitably sinking into the grave. * 

“Alford, Alford,” she cried, entreatingly, “why 
do you look so stern? You could not look more 
terrible in the most desperate battle.” 

In low, deep utterance, he said, “ This is my most 
desperate battle ; and in it are the issues of life and 
death.” 

“ You terrify ine^ and can you think that a weak. 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


393 


dying woman can look upon you as you now 
appear ?” 

“She shall not die/' he- continued, in the same 
low, stern utterance, “ and she must look upon me, 
and listen, too. Aunt, you have been faithful to me 
all these years. You have been my mother. I must 
entreat one more service. You must second me, 
sustain me, co-work with me. You must ally all your 
experienced womanhood with my manhood, and 
with my will, which may be broken, but which shall 
not yield to my cruel fate.". 

“ What do you propose to do ?" 

“ That will soon be manifest. Go and prepare 
Grace for my .visit. I wish to see her alone. You 
will please be near, however;" and he abruptly 
turned and went to his room to remove his military 
suit and the dust of travel. 

He had given his directions as if in the field, and 
she wonderingly and tremblingly obeyed, feeling 
that some crisis was near. 

Grace was greatly agitated when she heard of 
Graham’s arrival ; and two or three hours elapsed 
before she was able to be carried down and placed 
on the sofa in the library. He, out in the darkness 
on the piazza, watched with eyes that glowed like 
coals, — watched as he had done in the most desperate 
emergency of all the bloody years of battle. He saw 
her again, and in her wasted, helpless form, her hol- 
low cheeks, her bloodless face, with its weary, hope- 
less look, her mortal weakness, he clearly recognized 
his sombre rivals, Grief and Death ; and with a look 
of indomitable resolution he raised his hand and 


394 


HtS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


vowed that he would enter the lists against them. 
If it were within the scope of human will he would 
drive them from their prey. 

His aunt met him in the hall and whispered, Be 
gentle.’’ 

“ Remain here,” was his low reply. ” I have also 
sent for Dr. Markham and he entered. 

Grace reached out to him both her hands as she 
said, ” O Alford, you are barely in time. It is 
a comfort beyond all words to see you before — be- 
fore — ” She could not finish the sinister sentence. 

He gravely and silently took her hands, and sat 
down beside her. 

” I know I disappoint you,” she continued. ” I’ve 
been your evil genius, I’ve saddened your whole 
life ; and you have been so true and faithful ! Prom- 
ise me, Alford, that after I’m gone you will not let 
my blighted life cast its shadow over your future 
years. How strangely stern you look !” 

” So you intend to die, Grace ?” were his first, low 
words. 

” Intend to die ?” 

“Yes. Do you think you are doing right by your 
father in dying 

” Dear, dear papa ! I have long ceased to be a 
comfort to him. He, too, will be better when I am 
gone. I am now a hopeless grief to him. Alford, 
dear Alford, do not look at me in that way.” 

” How else can I look ? Do you not comprehend 
what your death means to me, if not to others ?” 

” Alford, can I help it ?” 

” Certainly you can. It will be sheer, downright 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


395 


selfishness for you to die. It will be your one un- 
worthy act. You have no disease : you have only 
to comply with the conditions of life in order to 
live. ’ ’ 

‘‘ You are mistaken,” she said, the faintest possi- 
ble color coming into her face. “ The bullet that 
caused Warren’s death has been equally fatal to me. 
Have I not tried to live?” 

” I do not ask you to try to live, but to live. Nay, 
more, I demand it ; and I have the right. I ask for 
nothing more. Although 1 have loved you, idolized 
you all these years, I ask only that you comply with 
the conditions of life and live.” 

The color deepened perceptibly under his em- 
phatic words, and she said, ” Can a woman live 
whose heart, and hope, and soul, if she has one, are 
dead and buried ?” 

“ Yes, as surely as a man whose heart and hope 
were buried long years before. There was a time 
when I weakly purposed to throw off the burden of 
life ; but I promised to live and do my best, and I 
am here to-day. You must make me the same prom- 
ise. In the name of all the past, I demand it. Do 
you imagine that I am going to sit down tamely and 
shed a few helpless tears if you do me this immeas- 
urable wrong ?” 

” O Alford !” she gasped, ” what do you mean ?” 

” I am not here, Grace, to make threats,” he said 
gravely ; ” but I fear you have made a merely super- 
ficial estimate of my nature. Hilland is not. You 
know that I would have died a hundred times in his 
place, fie committed you to my care with his last 


30 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


breath, and that trust gave value to my life. What 
right have you to die and bring to me the blackness 
of despair ? lam willing to bear my burden patiently 
to the end. You should be willing to bear yours.” 

” I admit your claim,” she cried, wringing her 
hands. “You have made death, that I welcome, a 
terror. How can I live ? What is there left of me 
but a shadow ? What am I but a mere semblance 
of a woman ? The snow is not whiter than my hair, 
or colder than my heart. O Alford, you have 
grown morbid in all these years. You cannot know 
what is best. Your true chance is to let me go. I 
am virtually dead now, and when my flickering 
breath ceases, the change will be slight indeed.” 

“ It will be a fatal change for me,” he replied, 
with such calm emphasis that she shuddered. “You 
ask how you can live. Again I repeat, by comply- 
ing with the conditions of life. You have been 
complying with the conditions of death ; and I will 
not yield you to him. Grief has been a far closer 
and more cherished friend than I ; and you have per- 
mitted it, like a shadow, to stand between us. The 
time has now come when you must choose between 
this fatal shadow, this useless, selfish grief, and a 
loyal friend, who only asks that he may see you at 
times, that he may know where to find the one life 
that is essential to his life. Can you not understand 
from your own experience that a word from you is 
sweeter to me than all the music of the world ? — that 
smiles from you will give me courage to fight the 
battle of life to the last ? Had Hilland come back 
wounded, would you have listened if he had rea- 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


397 


soned, * I am weak and maimed, — not like my old 
self ; you will be better off without me * ?’* 

“ Say no more,” she faltered. ” If a shadow can 
live, I will. If a poor, heartless, hopeless creature 
can continue to breathe, I will. If I die, as I believe 
I must, I will die doing just what you ask. If it is 
possible for me to live, I shall disappoint you more 
bitterly than ever. Alford, believe me, the woman 
is dead within me. If I live I shall become I know 
not what, — a sort of unnatural creature, having little 
more than physical life.” 

” Grace, our mutual belief forbids such a thought. 
If a plant is deeply shadowed, and moisture is with- 
drawn, it begins to die. Bring to it again light and 
moisture, the conditions of its life, and it gradually 
revives and resumes its normal state. This principle 
applies equally to you in your higher order of exist- 
ence. Will you promise me that, at the utmost 
exertion of your will and intelligence, you will try 
to live ?” 

“Yes, Alford ; but again I warn you. You will 
be disappointed.” 

He kissed both her hands with a manner that 
evinced profound gratitude and respect, but nothing 
more ; and then summoned his aunt and Dr. Mark- 
ham. 

Grace lay back on the sofa, white and faint, with 
closed eyes. 

“O Alford, what have you done?” exclaimed 
Mrs. Mayburn. 

“ What is right and rational. Dr. Markham, Mrs. 
Hilland has promised to use the utmost exertion of 


398 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


her will and intelligence to live. I ask that you and 
rny aunt employ your utmost skill and intelligence 
in co-operation with her effort. We here — all four 
of us — enter upon a battle ; and, like all battles, it 
should be fought with skill and indomitable courage, 
not sentimental impulse. I know that Mrs. Hilland 
will honestly make the effort, for she is one to keep 
her word. Am I not right, Grace ?” 

“Yes," was the faint reply. 

“ Why, now I can go to work with hope," said 
the physician briskly, as he gave his patient a little 
stimulant. 

“ And I also," cried the old lady, tears streaming 
down her face. “ O darling Grace, you will live 
and keep all our hearts from breaking." 

“ ril try," she said, in almost mortal weariness. 

When she had been revived somewhat by his 
restoratives. Dr. Markham said, “ I now advise that 
she be carried back to her room, and I promise to be 
unwearied in my care." 

“ No," said Graham to his aunt. “ Do not call 
the servants ; I shall carry her to her room myself 
and he lifted her as gently as he would take up a 
child, and bore her strongly and easily to her room. 

“ Poor, poor Alford !" she whispered, — “ wasting 
your rich, full heart on a shadow." 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


ALL MATERIALISTS. 

W HEN Graham returned to the library he 
found that the major had tottered in, and 
was awaiting him with a look of intense anxiety. 

“ Graham, Graham !’' he cried, “do you think 
there is any hope ?“ 

“ I do, sir. I think there is almost a certainty 
that your daughter will live.” 

“Now God be praised ! although I have little right 
to say it, for I’ve put His name to a bad use all my 
life.” 

“ I don’t think any harm has been done,” said 
Graham, smiling. 

“ O, I know, I know how wise you German stu- 
dents are. You can’t find God with a microscope 
or a telescope, and therefore there is none. But I’m 
the last man to criticise. Grace has been my divin- 
ity since her mother died ; and if you can give a rea- 
sonable hope that she’ll live to close my eyes, I’ll 
thank the God that my wife worshipped, in spite of 
all your new-fangled philosophies.” 

“ And I hope I shall never be so wanting in cour- 
tesy, to say the least, as to show anything but 


400 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


respect for your convictions. You shall know the 
whole truth about Grace ; and I shall look to you also 
for aid in a combined effort to rally and strengthen 
her forces of life. You know, Major, that I have 
seen some service.'' 

“Yes, yes ; boy that you are, you are a hundred- 
fold more of a veteran than I am. At the beginning 
of the war I felt very superior and experienced. But 
the war that I saw was mere child's play." 

“ Well, sir, the war that I’ve been through was 
child’s play to me compared with the battle begun 
to-night. I never feared death, except as it might 
bring trouble to others, and for long years I coveted 
it ; but I fear the death of Grace Hilland beyond 
anything in this world or any other. As her father, 
you now shall learn the whole truth and he told 
his story from the evening of their first game of 
whist together. 

“Strange, strange!’’ muttered the old man. 
“ It’s the story of Philip Harkness over again. But, 
by the God who made me, she shall reward you if 
she lives.’’ 

“ No, Major St. John, no. She shall devote her- 
self to you, and live the life that her own feelings 
dictate. She understands this, and I will it. I assure 
you that whatever else I lack it’s not a will.’’ 

“ You’ve proved that, Graham, if ever a man did. 
Well, well, well, your coming has brought a strange 
and most welcome state of affairs. Somehow you’ve 
given me a new lease of life and courage. Of late 
we’ve all felt like hauling down the flag, and letting 
grim death do his worst. I couldn’t have sur- 


ALL MATERIALISTS. 


401 


vived Grace, and didn’t want to. Only plucky Mrs. 
Mayburn held on to your coming as a forlorn hope. 
You now make me feel like nailing the flag to the 
staff, and opening again with every gun. Grace is 
like her mother, if I do say it. Grace Brentford never 
lacked for suitors, and she had the faculty of waking 
up men. Forgive an old man’s vanity. Phil Hark, 
ness was a little wild as a young fellow, but he had 
grand mettle in him. He made more of a figure in 
the world than I, — was sent to Congress, owned a big 
plantation, and all that, — but sweet Grace Brentford 
always looked at me reproachfully when I rallied her 
on the mistake she had made, and was contentment 
itself in my rough soldier’s quarters,” and the old 
man took off his spectacles to wipe his tear-dimmed 
eyes. ” Grace is just like her. She, too, has waked 
up men. Hilland was a grand fellow ; and, Graham, 
you are a soldier every inch of you, and that’s the 
highest praise I can bestow. You are in command in 
this battle, and God be with you. ^^Your unbelief 
doesn’t afffct Him any more than a mole’s.” 

Graham laughed — he could laugh in his present 
hopefulness — as he replied, “ I agree with you fully. 
If there is a personal Creator of the universe, I cer- 
tainly am a small object in it.” 

” That’s not what I’ve been taught to believe 
either ; nor is it according to my reason. An infinite 
God could give as much attention to you as to the 
solar system.” 

” From the present aspect of the world, a great 
deal would appear neglected,” Graham replied, with 
a shrug. 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


402 

“ Come, Colonel Graham," said the major, a littie 
sharply, " you and I have both heard the rank and 
file grumble over the tactics of their general. It often 
turned out that the general knew more than the men. 
But it’s nice business for me to be talking religion 
to you or any one else and the idea struck him 
as so comical that he laughed outright. 

Mrs. Mayburn, who entered at that moment, said, 
" That’s a welcome sound. I can’t remember, Major, 
when I’ve heard you laugh. Alford, you are a magi- 
cian. Grace is sleeping quietly.’’ 

"Little wonder! What have I had to laugh 
about?" said the major. "But melancholy itself 
would laugh at my joke to-night. Would you 
believe it. I’ve been talking religion to the colonel, 

■ if I haven’t 1" 

" I think it’s time religion was talked to all of us.’' 

" O, now, Mrs. Mayburn, don’t you begin. 
You haven’t any God any more than Graham has. 
You have a jumble of old-fashioned theological attri- 
butes, that are of no more practical use to you than 
the doctrines of Aristotle. Please ring for Jinny, 
and tell her to bring us a bottle of wine and some 
cake. I want to drink to Grace’s health. If I could 
see her smile again I’d fire a feu de joie, if I could 
find any ordnance larger than a popgun. Don’t laugh 
at me, friends," he added, wiping the tears from his 
dim old eyes ; " but the bare thought that Grace will 
live to bless my last few days almost turns my head. 
Where is Dr. Markham ?’’ 

" He had other patients to see, and said he would 
veturn by and by," Mrs. Mayburn replied. 


ALL MATERIALISTS. 


403 


“ It’s time we had a little relief,” she continued, 

whatever the future may be. The slow, steady 
pressure of anxiety and fear was becoming unendur- 
able. I could scarcely have suffered more if Grace 
had been my own child; and I feared for you, Alford, 
quite as much.” 

” And with good reason,” he said, quietly. 

She gave him a keen look, and then did as the 
major had requested. 

” Come, friends,” cried he, ” let us give up this 
evening to hope and cheer. Let what will come 
on the morrow, we’ll have at least one more gleam 
of wintry sunshine to-day.” 

Filling the glasses of all with his trembling 
hand, he added, when they were alone, ” Here’s to 
my darling’s health. May the good God spare her, 
and spare us all, to see brighter days. Because I’m 
not good, is no reason why He isn’t.” 

“Amen!” cried the old lady, with Methodistic 
fervor. 

“ What are you saying amen to? — that I’m not 
good ?” 

“ O, I imagine we all average about alike,” was 
her grim reply, — “.the more shame to us all !” 

“ Dear, conscience-stricken old aunty !” said Gra- 
ham, smiling at her. “ Will nothing ever lay your 
theological ghosts ?” 

“ No, Alford,” she said, gravely. “ Let us change 
the subject.” 

“ I’ve told Major St. John everything from the • 
day I first came here, ’ ’ Graham explained ; ‘ ‘ and now 
before we separate let it be understood that he 


404 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


joins us as a powerful ally. His influence over Grace, 
after all, is more potent than that of all the rest of us 
united. My words to-night have acted more like a 
shock than anything else. I have placed before her 
clearly and sharply the consequences of yielding pas- 
sively, and of drifting farther toward darkness. We 
must possess ourselves with an almost infinite pa- 
tience and vigilance. She, after all, must bear the 
brunt o' this fight with death ; but we must be ever 
on hand to give her support, and it must be given 
also unobtrusively, with all the tact we possess. We 
can let her see that we are more cheerful in our 
renewed hope, but we must be profoundly sympa- 
thetic and considerate.” 

” Well, Graham, as I said before, you are cap- 
tain. I learned to obey orders long ago, as well as 
to give them and the major summoned his valet 
and bade them good-night. 

Graham, weary in the reaction from his intense 
feeling and excitement, threw himself on the sofa, 
and his aunt came and sat beside him. 

“Alford,” she said, “what an immense change 
your coming has 'made !” 

“ The beginning of a change, I hope.” 

“ It was time, — it was time. A drearier household 
could scarcely be imagined. O, how dreary life 
can become ! Grace was dying. Every day I ex- 
pected tidings of your death. It’s a miracle that 
you are alive after all these bloody years. All zest 
in living had departed from the major. We are all 
materialists, after our own fashion, wholly depend- 
ent on earthly things, and earthly things were failing 


ALL MATERIALISTS. 


405 


US. In losing Grace, you and the major would have 
lost everything ; so would I in losing you. Alford, 
you have become a son to me. Would you break a 
mother’s heart } Can you not still promise to live 
and do your best ?” 

“ Dear aunt, we shall all live and do our best.” 

” Is that the best you can say, Alford ?” 

” Aunty, there are limitations to the strength of 
every man. I have reached the boundary of mine. 
From the time I began the struggle in the Vermont 
woods, and all through my exile, I fought this pas- 
sion. I hesitated at no danger, and the wilder and 
more desolate the regidn, the greater were its attrac- 
tions to me. I sought to occupy my mind with all 
that was new and strange; but such was my 
nature that this love became an inseparable part of 
my being. I might just as well have said I would 
forget my sad childhood, the studies that have inter- 
ested me, your kindness. I might as well have 
decreed that I should not look the same and be the 
same, — that all my habits of thought and traits of 
character should not be my own. Imagine that a tree 
in your garden had will and intelligence. Could it 
ignore the law of its being, all the long years which 
had made it what it is, and decide to be some other 
kind of tree, totally different ? A man who from child- 
hood has had many interests, many affections, loses, 
no doubt, a sort of concentration when the one 
supreme love of his life takes possession of him. If 
Grace lives, and I can see that she has at last tran- 
quilly and patiently accepted her lot, you will find 
that I can be tranquil and patjent. If she dies. 


4o6 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS, 


I feel that I shall break utterly. I can’t look 
into the abyss that her grave would open. Do not 
think that I would consciously and deliberately 
become a vulgar suicide, — I hope 1 long since passed 
that point, and love and respect for you forbid the 
thought, — but the long strain that I have been under, 
and the dominating influence of my life, would 
culminate. I should give way like a man before a 
cold, deadly avalanche. I have been frank with 
you, for in my profound gratitude for your love and 
kindness I would not have you misunderstand me, 
or think for a moment that I proposed deliberately 
to forget you in my own trouble. The truth is just 
this, aunt : I have not strength enough to endure 
Grace Hilland’s death. It would be such a lame, 
dreary, impotent conclusion that I should sink under 
it, as truly as a man wh6 found himself in the sea 
weighted by a ton of lead. But don’t let us dwell on 
this thought. I truly believe that Grace will live, if 
we give her all the aid she requires. If she honestly 
makes the effort to live, — as she will, I feel sure, — she 
can scarcely help living when the conditions of life 
are supplied.” 

“ I think I understand you, Alford,” said the old 
lady, musingly ; ” and yet your attitude seems a 
strange one.” 

” It’s not an unnatural one. I am what I have 
been growing to be all these years. I can trace the 
sequence of cause and effect until this moment.” 

” Well, then,” said the old lady, grimly, ” Grace 
must live, if it be in the power of human will and 
effort to save her. Would that I had the faith in 


ALL MATERIALISTS. 


407 


God that I ought to have ! But He is afar off, and 
He acts in accordance with an infinite wisdom that 
I can't understand. The happiness of His creatures 
seems a very secondary affair. " 

‘‘ Now, aunty, we are on ground where we differ 
theoretically, to say the least ; but I accord to you 
full right to think what you please, because I know 
you will employ all the natural and rational expedi- 
ents of a skilful nurse." 

Yes, Alford ; you and Grace only make me un- 
happy when you talk in that way. I know you are 
wrong, just as certainly as the people who believed 
the sun moved round the earth. The trouble is that 
I know it only with the same cold mental conviction, 
and therefore can be of no help to either of you. 
Pardon me for my bluntness : do you expect to 
marry Grace, should she become strong and 
well ?" 

“ No, I can scarcely say I have any such hope. 
It is a thought I do not even entertain at present, 
nor does she. I am content to be her friend through 
life, and am convinced that she could not think of 
marriage agaki for years, if ever. That is a matter 
of secondary importance. All that Task is that she 
shall live." 

" Well, compared with most men, a very little con- 
tents you," said his aunt dryly. " We shall see, we 
shall see. But you have given me such an incentive 
that, were it possible. I'd open my withered veins 
and giv^e her half of my poor blood." 

Dear aunty, how true and stanch your love is ! 
I cannot believe it will be disappointed." 


4o8 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


“ I must go back to my post now, nor shall I leave 
it very often.” 

” Here is Dr. Markham. He will see that you 
leave it often enough to maintain your own health, 
and I will too. I’ve been a soldier too long to per- 
mit my chief of staff to be disabled. Pardon me, 
doctor, but it seems to me that this is more of 
a case for nursing and nourishment than for drugs.” 

” You are right, and yet a drug can also become a 
useful ally. In my opinion, it is more a case for 
change than anything else. When Mrs. Hilland is 
strong enough, you must take her from this atmos- 
phere and these associations. In a certain sense she 
must begin life over again, and take root elsewhere.” 

” There may be truth in what you say ;” and 
Graham was merged in deep thought when he was 
left alone. The doctor, in passing out a few moments 
later, assured him that all promised well. . 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 


THE EFFORT TO LIVE. 

S Graham had said, it did seem that infinite 



patience and courage would be required to 
defeat the dark adversaries now threatening the life 
upon which he felt that his own depended. He 
had full assurance that Grace made her promised 
effort, but it was little more than an effort of will, 
dictated by a sense of duty. She had lost her hoF 
on life, which to her enfeebled, mind and b 
promised little beyond renewed weariness an^ 
appointment. How she could live again 
proper sense of the word was beyond her 
hension ; and what was bare existence ? 
be burdensome to herself and become wear 
others. The mind acts through its own 
medium, and all the light that came to her 
ored by almost despairing memories. 

Too little allowance is often made for those in i. 
condition. The strong man smiles half- contemptu- 
ously at the efforts of one who is feeble to lift a 
trifling weight. Still, he is charitable. He knows 
that if the man has not the muscle, all is explained. 
So material are the conceptions of many that they 


410 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


have no patience with those who have been enfee- 
bled in mind, will, and courage. Such persons would 
say, “ Of course Mrs. Hilland cannot attend to her 
household as before ; but she ought to have faith, 
resignation ; she ought to make up her mind cheer- 
fully to submit, and she would soon be well. Great 
heavens ! haven’t other women lost their husbands r 
Yes, indeed, and they worried along quite comfort- 
ably. 

Graham took no such superficial view. “ Other 
women” were not Grace. He was philosophical, 
and tried to estimate the effect of her own peculiar 
experience on her own nature, and was not guilty 
of the absurdity of generalizing. It was his prob- 
lem to save Grace as she was, and not as some good 
people said she ought to be. Still, his firm belief 
mained, that she could live if she would comply 
what he believed to be the conditions of life ; 
that she could scarcely help living. If the 
dd come when her brain would be nourished 
ndance of healthful blood, he might hope 
anything. She would then be able to 
^ast dispassionately, to recognize that what 
was gone forever, and to see the folly of a 
ch wasted the present and the future. If 
/er became strong enough for that — and the 
opect was only a faint, half-acknowledged hope 
— then he would reverently worship a patient, gen- 
tle, white-haired woman, who should choose her 
own secluded path, he being content to make it as 
smooth and thornless as possible. 

Beyond a brief absence at the time his regiment 


THE EFFORT TO LIVE. 


411 


was mustered out of the service he was always at 
home, and the allies against death — with their sev- 
eral hopes, wishes, and interests — worked faithfully. 
At last there was a more decided response in the 
patient. Her sleep became prolonged, as if she 
were making amends for the weariness of years. 
Skilful tonic treatment told on the wasted form. 
New blood was made, and that in Graham’s creed 
was new life. 

His materialistic theory, however, was far re- 
moved from any gross conception of the problem. 
He did not propose to feed a woman into a new 
and healthful existence, except as he fed what he 
deemed to be her whole nature. In his idea, flow- 
ers, beauty in as many forms as he could command 
and she enjoy at the time, were essential. He ran- 
sacked nature in his walks for things to interest her. 
He brought her out into the sunshine, and taught 
her to distinguish the different birds by their notes. 
He had Mrs. Mayburn talk to her and consult with 
her over the homely and wholesome details of house- 
keeping. Much of the news of the day was brought 
to her attention as that which should naturally in- 
terest her, especially the reconstruction of the 
South, as represented and made definite by the ex- 
perience of Henry Anderson and his sister. He 
told her that he had bought at a nominal sum a 
large plantation in the vicinity of the parsonage, and 
that Colonel Anderson should be his agent, with the 
privilege of buying at no more of an advance than 
would satisfy the proud young Southerner’s self- 
respect. 


4i2 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS, 


Thus from every side he sought to bring natural 
and healthful influences to bear upon her mind, to 
interest her in life at every point where it touched 
her, and to reconnect the broken threads which had 
bound her to the world. 

He was aided earnestly and skilfully on all sides. 
Their success, however, was discouragingly slow. In 
her weakness Grace made pathetic attempts to re- 
spond, but not from much genuine interest. As she 
grew stronger her manner toward her father was 
more like that of her former self than was the rest 
of her conduct. Almost as if from the force of 
habit, she resumed her thoughtful care for his com- 
fort ; but beyond that there seemed to be an apa- 
thy, an indifference, a dreary preoccupation hard to 
combat. 

In Graham’s presence she would make visible 
effort to do all he wished, but it was painfully visi- 
ble, and sometimes she would recognize his unob- 
trusive attentions with a smile that was sadder than 
any words could be. One day she seemed almost 
wholly free from the deep apathy that was becom- 
ing characteristic, and she said to him, Alas, my 
friend ! as I said to you at first, the woman is dead 
within me. My body grows stronger, as the result 
of the skill and help you all are bringing to bear on 
my sad problem, but my heart is dead, and my hope 
takes no hold on life. I cannot overcome the feel- 
ing that I am a mere shadow, and have no right to 
be here among the living. You are so brave, pa- 
tient, and faithful that I am ever conscious of a sort 
of dull remorse ; but there is a weight on my brain 


THE EFFORT TO LIVE. 


4t3 


and a despairing numbness at my heart, making 
everything seem vain and unreal. Please do not 
blame me. Asking me to feel is like requiring sight 
of the blind. Tve lost the faculty. I have suffered 
so much that I have become numb, if not dead. 
The shadows of the past mingle with the shadows of 
to-day. Only you seem real in your strong, vain 
effort, and as far as I can suffer any more it pains 
me to see you thus waste yourself on a hopeless 
shadow of a woman. I told you I should disappoint 

> y 

you. 

“ I am not wasting myself, Grace. Remain a 
shadow till you can be more. I will bear my part 
of the burden, if you will be patient with yours. 
Won't you believe that I am infinitely happier in 
caring for you as you are than I should be if I could 
not thus take your hand and express to you my 
thought, my sympathy ? Dear Grace, the causes 
which led to your depression were strong and terri- 
ble. Should we expect them" to be counteracted in 
a few short weeks ?” 

“Alas, Alford! is there any adequate remedy? 
Forgive me for saying this to you, and yet you, of 
all people, can understand me best. You cling to 
me who should be nothing to a man of your power 
and force. You say you cannot go on in life with- 
out me, even as a weak, dependent friend, — that 
you would lose all zest, incentive, and interest ; for 
I cannot think you mean more. If you feel in this 
way toward me, who in the eyes of other men would 
be a dismal burden, think how Warren dwells in my 
memory, what he was to me, how his strong sunny 


414 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS, 


nature was the sun of my life. Do you not see you 
are asking of me what you say you could not do 
yourself, although you would, after your own brave, 
manly fashion ? But your own belief should teach 
you the nature of my task when you ask me to go 
on and take up life again, from which I was torn 
more completely than the vine which falls with the 
tree to which it clung.” 

” Dear Grace, do not think for a moment that I 
am not always gratefully conscious of the immense 
self-sacrifice you are making for me and others. 
You long for rest and forgetfulness, and yet you 
know well that your absence would leave an abyss 
of despair. You now add so much to the comfort 
of your father ! Mrs. Mayburn clings to you with 
all the love of a mother. And I, Grace, — what else 
can I do ? Even your frail, sad presence is more to 
me than the sun in the sky. Is it pure selfishness 
on my part to wish to keep you ? Time, the healer, 
will gradually bring • to you rest from pain, and 
serenity to us all. When you are stronger I will 
take you to Hilland’s grave — ” 

” No, no, no !” she cried, almost passionately. 
” Why should I go there ? O, this is the awful part 
of it ! What I so loved has become nothing, worse 
than nothing, — that from which I shrink as some- 
thing horrible. O ‘Alford ! why are we endowed 
with such natures if corruption is to be the end ? It 
is this thought that paralyzes me. It seems as if 
pure, unselfish love is singled out for the most dia- 
bolical punishment. To think that a form which 
has become sacred to you may be put away at any 


THE EFFORT TO LIVE. 415 

moment as a horrible and unsightly thing ! and that 
such should be the end of the noblest devotion of 
which man is capable ! My whole being revolts at 
it ; and yet how can I escape from its truth ? I am 
beset by despairing thoughts on every side when 
able to think at all, and my best remedy seems a 
sort of dreary apathy, in which I do little more than 
breathe. I have read that there comes a time when 
the tortured cease to feel much pain. There was a 
time, especially at the hospital, when I suffered con- 
stantly, — when almost everything but you suggested 
torturing thoughts. I suffered with you and for 
you, but there was always something sustaining in 
your presence. There is still. I should not live a 
month in your absence, but it seems as if it were 
your strong will that holds me, not my own. You 
have given me the power, the incentive, to make 
such poor effort as I am putting forth. Moreover, 
in intent, you gave your life for Warren again and 
again, and as long as I have any volition left I will 
try and do all you wish, since you so wish it. But 
my hope is dead. I do not see how any more good 
can come to me or through me.” 

‘‘You are still willing, however, to permit me to 
think for you, to guide you 1 You will still use 
your utmost effort to live ?” 

“ Yes. I can refuse to the man who went back 
to my dying husband nothing within my power to 
grant. It is indeed little. Besides, I am in your 
care, but I fear I shall prove a sad, if not a fatal 
legacy. 

“ Of that, dear Grace, you must permit me to be 


4i6 his sombre rivals. 

the judge. All that you have said only adds 
strength to my purpose. Does not the thought that 
you are doing so very much for me and for all who 
love you bring some solace ?” 

“ It should. But what have I brought you but 
pain and deep anxiety ? O Alford, Alford ! you 
will waken some bitter day to the truth that you 
love but the wraith of the girl who unconsciously won 
your heart. You have idealized her, and the being 
you now love does not exist. How can I let you 
go on thus wronging yourself ?” 

“ Grace,” replied he, gravely and almost sternly, 
“ I learned in the northern woods, among the fiords 
of Norway, under the shadow of the Himalayas, and 
in my long, lonely hours in the war, whom I loved, 
and why I loved her. I made every effort at forget- 
fulness that I, at least, was capable of exerting, and 
never forgot for an hour. Am I a sentimental boy, 
that you should talk to me in this way } Let us 
leave that question as settled for all time. More- 
over, never entertain the thought that I am plan- 
ning and hoping for the future. I see in your affec- 
tion for me only a pale reflection of your love for 
Hilland.” 

” No, Alford, I love you for your own sake. 
How tenderly you have ever spoken of little Rita 
Anderson, and yet — ” 

“ And yet, as I have told you more than once, 
the thought of loving her never entered my mind. 
I could plan for her happiness as I would for a sis- 
ter, had I one.” 

. ” Therefore you can interpret me.” 


THE EFFORT TO LIVE, 


417 


“ Therefore I have interpreted you, and, from 
the first, have asked for nothing more than that you 
still make one of our little circle, each member of 
which would be sadly missed, you most of all/' 

“ I ought to be able to do so little as that for you. 
Indeed, I am trying." 

" I know you are, and, as you succeed, you will 
see that I am content. Do not feel that when I am 
present you must struggle and make unwonted 
effort. The tide is setting toward life ; float gently 
on with it. Do not try to force nature. Let time 
and rest daily bring their imperceptible healing. 
The war is over. I now have but one object in life, 
and if you improve I shall come and go and do some 
man’s work in the world. My plantation in Vir- 
ginia will soon give me plenty of wholesome out-of 
door thoughts." 

She gave him one of her sad smiles as she replied 
wearily, ‘‘You set me a good example." 

This frank interchange of thought appeared at 
first to have a good effect on Grace, and brought 
something of the rest which comes from submission 
to the inevitable. She found that Graham’s pur- 
pose was as immovable as the hills, and at the same 
time was more absolutely convinced that he was not 
looking forward to what ’seemed an impossible 
future. Nor did he ask that her effort should be 
one of feeble struggles to manifest an interest be- 
fore him which she did not feel. She yielded to 
her listlessness and apathy to a degree that alarmed 
her father and Mrs. Mayburn, but Graham said : 

It’s the course of nature. After such prolonged 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


418 


suffering, both body and mind need this lethargy. 
Reaction from one extreme to another might be ex- 
pected.” 

Dr. Markham agreed in the main with this view, 
and yet there was a slight contraction of perplexity 
on his brows as he added : “I should not like to see 
this tendency increase beyond a certain point, or 
continue too long. From the first shock of her be- 
reavement Mrs. Hilland’s mind has not been exactly 
in a normal condition. There are phases of her 
trouble difficult to account for and difficult to treat. 
The very fineness of her organization made the 
terrible shock more serious in its injury. I do not 
say this to discourage you, — far from it, — but in 
sincerity I must call your attention to the fact that 
every new phase of her grief has tended to some ex- 
treme manifestation, showing a disposition toward, 
not exactly mental weakness, but certainly an ab- 
normal mental condition. I speak of this that you 
may intelligently guard against it. If due precau- 
tion is used, the happy mean between, these reac- 
tions may be reached, and both mind and body 
recover a healthful tone. I advise that you all seek 
some resort by the sea, a new one, without any 
associations with the' past.” 

Within a few days they were at a seaside inn, a 
large one whose very size offered seclusion. From 
their wide and lofty balconies they could watch the 
world come and go on the sea and. on the land ; and 
the world was too large and too distant for close 
scrutiny or petty gossip. They could have their 
meals in their rooms, or in the immense dining-hall. 


THE EFFORT TO LIVE. 


419 


as they chose ; and in the latter place the quiet 
party would scarcely attract a second glance from 
the young, gay, and sensation-loving. Their tran- 
sient gaze would see two old ladies, one an invalid, 
an old and crippled man, and one much younger, 
who evidently would never take part in a german. 

It was thought and hoped that this nearness to 
the complex world, with the consciousness that it 
could not approach her to annoy and pry, might 
tend to awaken in Grace a passing interest in its 
many phases. She could see without feeling that' 
she was scanned and surmised about, as is too often 
the case in ‘smaller houses wherein the guests are 
not content until they have investigated all new- 
comers. 

But Grace disappointed her friends. She was as 
indifferent to the world about her as the world was 
to her. At first she was regarded as a quiet invalid, 
and scarcely noticed. The sea seemed to interest 
her more. than all things else, and, if uninterrupted, 
she would sit and gaze at its varying aspects for 
hours. 

According to Graham’s plan, she was permitted, 
with little interference, to follow her mood. Mrs. 
Mayburn was like a watchful mother, the major 
much his former self, for his habits were too fixed 
for radical changes. Grace would quietly do any- 
thing he asked, but she grew more forgetful and in- 
attentive, coming out of h-er deep abstraction — if 
such it could be termed — with increasing effort. 
With Graham she seemed more content than with 
any one else. With him she took lengthening 


420 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


walks on the beach. He sat quietly beside her 
while she watched the billows chasing one another to 
the shore. Their swift onset, their defeat, over 
which they appeared to foam in wrath, their back- 
ward and disheartened retreat, ever seemed to tell 
her in some dim way a story of which she never 
wearied. Often she would turn and look at him 
with a vague trouble in her face, as if faintly remem- 
bering something that was a sorrow to them both ; 
but his reassuring smile quieted her, and she would 
take his hand as a little child might have done, and 
sit for an hour without removing her eyes from the 
waves. He waited patiently day after day, week 
after week, reiterating to himself, “ She will waken, 
she will remember all, and then will have strength 
and calmness to meet it. This is nature’s long 
repose.” 

It was growing strangely long and deep. 

Meanwhile Grace, in her outward appearance, 
was undergoing a subtle change. Graham was the 
first to observe it, and at last it was apparent to all. 
As her mind became inert, sleeping on a downy 
couch of forgetfulness, closely curtained, the silent 
forces of physical life, in her deep tranquillity, were 
doing an artist’s work. The hollow cheeks were 
gradually rounded and given the faintest possible 
bloom. Her form was gaining a contour that might 
satisfy a sculptor’s dream. 

The major had met old friends, and it was whis- 
pered about who they were, — the widow of a mil- 
lionnaire ; Colonel Graham, one of the most dash- 
ing cavalry officers in the war which was still in all 


THE EFFORT TO LIVE. 


42 7 

minds ; Major St. John, a veteran soldier of the 
regular service, who had been wounded in the 
Mexican War, and who was well and honorably 
known to the chief dignitaries of the former genera- 
tion. Knowing all this, the quidnuncs complacently 
felt at first that they knew all. The next thing was 
to know the people. This proved to be difficult in- 
deed. The major soon found a few veteran cronies 
at whist, but to others was more unapproachable 
than a major-general of the old school. Graham 
was far worse, and belles tossed their heads at the 
idea that he had ever been a “ dashing cavalry 
officer" or dashing anything else. Before the sum- 
mer was over the men began to discover that Mrs. 
Hilland was the most beautiful woman in the house, 
— strangely, marvellously, supernaturally beautiful. 

An artist, who had found opportunity to watch 
the poor unconscious woman furtively, — not so 
furtively either but that any belle in the hostelry 
would know all about it in half a minute, — raved 
about the combination of charms he had discovered. 

“Just imagine,” he said, “what a picture she 
made as she sat alone on the beach ! She was so 
remarkable in her appearance that one might think 
she had arisen from the sea, and was not a creature 
of the earth. Her black, close-fitting dress sug- 
gested the form of Aphrodite as ghe rose from the 
waves. Her profile was almost faultless in its ex- 
quisite lines. Her complexion, with just a slight 
warm tinge imparted by the breeze, had not the 
cold, dead white of snow, but the clear transpar- 
ency which good aristocratic blood imparts. But 


422 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


her eyes and hair were her crowning features. How 
shall I describe the deep, dreamy languor of her 
large, dark eyes, made a hundred-fold more effec- 
tive by the silvery whiteness of her hair, which had 
partly escaped from her comb, and fell upon her 
neck ! And then her sublime, tranquil indiffer- 
ence ! That I was near, spell-bound with admira- 
tion, did not interest her so much as a sail, no larger 
than a gull’s wing, far out at sea.” 

” Strange, strange 1” said one of his friends, 
laughing ; ” her unconsciousness of your presence 
was the strangest part of it all. Why did you not 
make a sketch ?” 

“ I did, but that infernal Colonel Graham, who is 
said to be her shadow, — after her million, you 
know, — suddenly appeared and asked sternly, 

‘ Have you the lady’s permission for this sketch ? ’ 
I stammered about being ‘ so impressed, that in the 
interests of art,’ etc. He then snatched my sketch 
and threw it into the waves. Of course I was 
angry, and I suppose my words and manner became 
threatening. He took a step toward me, looking as 
I never saw a man look. ‘ Hush,’ he said, in a low 
voice. ‘ Say or do a thing to annoy that lady, and 
I’ll wring your neck and toss you after your sketch. 
Do you think I’ve been through a hundred battles 
to fear your insignificance?’ By Jove ! he looked 
as if he could do it as easily as say it. Of course I 
was not going to brawl before a lady.” 

” No ; it wouldn’t have been prudent, — I mean 
gentlemanly,” remarked his bantering friend. 

“Well, laugh at me,” replied the young fellow, 


THE EFFORT TO LIVE. 423 

who was as honest as light-hearted and vain. “I’d 
risk the chance of having my neck wrung for an^ 
other glimpse at such marvellous beauty. Would 
you believe it } the superb creature never so much 
as once turned to glance at us. She left me to her 
attendant as completely as if he were removing an 
annoying insect. Heavens ! but it was the perfect 
tion of high breeding. But I shall have my re- 
venge : ril paint her yet.” 

“ Right, my friend, right you are ; and your 
revenge will be terrible. Her supernatural and 
high-bred nonchalance will be lost forever should she 
sec her portrait and with mutual chaffing, spiced 
with good-natured satire, as good-naturedly re- 
ceived, the little party in a smoking-room separated. 

But furtive eyes soon relieved the artist from the 
charge of exaggeration. Thus far Grace’s manner had 
been ascribed to high-bred reserve and the natural 
desire for seclusion in her widowhood. Now, how. 
ever, that attention was concentrated upon her, 
Graham feared that more than her beauty would ba 
discovered. 

He himself also longed inexpressibly to hide his 
new phase of trouble from the chattering throng of 
people who were curious to know about them. To 
know ? As if they could know ! They might bet- 
ter sit down to gossip over the secrets of the differ- 
ential and the integral calculus. 

But he saw increasing evidences that they were 
becoming objects of “ interest,” and the beautiful 
millionnaire widow “very interesting,” as it was 
phrased ; and he knew that there is no curiosity so 


424 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


penetrating as that of the fashionable world when 
once it is aroused, and the game deemed worthy of 
pursuit. 

People appeared from Washington who had 
known Lieutenant-Colonel Hilland and heard some- 
thing of Graham, and the past was being ferreted 
out. “ Her hair had turned white from grief in a 
night,’' it was confidently affirmed. 

Poor Jones shrugged his shoulders as he thought, 
“ I shall never be the cause of my wife’s hair turn- 
ing white, unless I may, in the future, prevent her 
from dyeing it. ” 

After all, sympathy was not very deep. It was 
generally concluded that Colonel Graham would 
console her, and one lady of elegant leisure, proud 
of her superior research, declared that she had seen 
the colonel “ holding Mrs. Hilland’s hand,” as they 
sat in a secluded angle of the rocks. 

Up to a certain time it was comparatively easy to 
shield Grace ; but now, except as she would turn 
her large, dreamy eyes and unresponsive lips upon 
those who sought her acquaintance, she was as help- 
less as a child. The major and Mrs. Mayburn at 
once acquiesced in Graham’s wish to depart. 
Within a day or two the gossips found that their 
prey had escaped, and Grace was once more in her 
cottage home. 

At first she recognized familiar surroundings with 
a sigh of content. Then a deeply troubled look 
flitted across her face and she looked at Graham in- 
quiringly. 

“ What is it, Grace ?” he asked, gently. 


THE EFFORT TO LIVE. 


425 

She pressed her hand to her brow, glanced around 
once more, shook her head sadly, and went to her 
room to throw off her wraps. 

They all looked at one another with consterna- 
tion. Hitherto they had tried to be dumb and 
blind, each hiding the growing and awful conviction 
that Grace was drifting away from them almost as 
surely as if she had died. 

“ Something must be done at once,” said prac- 
tical Mrs. Mayburn. 

” I have telegraphed fpr Dr. Markham,” replied 
Graham, gloomily. ” Nothing can be done till he 
returns. He is away on a distant trip.” 

” Oh !” groaned the old major, ” there will be an 
end of me before there is to all this trouble.” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 


GRAHAM’S LAST SACRIFICE. 
TERRIBLE foreboding oppressed Graham. 



Would Grace fulfil her prediction and disap- 
point him, after all ? Would she elude him, escape, 
die, and yet remain at his side, beautiful as a 
dream ? O the agony of possessing this perfect 
casket, remembering the jewel that had vanished ! 
He had vowed to defeat'* his gloomy rivals. Grief 
and Death, and they were mocking him, giving the 
semblance of what he craved beyond even imagined 
perfection, but carrying away into their own inscru- 
table darkness the woman herself. 

What was Grace ? — what becoming ? As he 
looked he thought of her as a sculptor’s ideal em- 
bodied, a dream of beauty only, not a woman, — as 
the legend of Eve, who might, before becoming a 
living soul, have harmonized with the loveliness of 
her garden without seeing or feeling it. 

He could not think of her mind as blotted out or 
perverted ; he could not conceive of it otherwise 
than as corresponding with her outward symmetry. 
To his thought it slumbered, as her form might 
repose upon her couch, in a death-like trance. She 


GRAHAM'S LAST SACRIFICE. 


427 


went and came among them like a somnambulist, 
guided by unconscious instincts, memories, and 
habits. 

She knew their voices, did, within limitations, as 
they requested ; but when she waited on her father 
there was a sad, mechanical repetition of what she 
had done since childhood. Mrs. Mayburn found 
her docile and easily controlled, and the heart- 
stricken old lady was vigilance itself. 

Toward Graham, however, her manner had a 
marked characteristic. He was her master, and she a 
dumb, lovely, unreasoning creature, that looked into 
his eyes for guidance, and gathered more from his 
tones than from his words. Some faint consciousness 
of the past had grown into an instinct that to him 
she must look for care and direction ; and she never 
thought of resisting his will. If he read to her, she 
turned to him her lovely face, across which not a 
gleam of interest or intelligence would pass. If he 
brought her flowers, she would hold them until they 
were taken from her. She would pace the garden 
walks by his side, with her hand upon his arm, by 
the hour if he wished it, sometimes smiling faintly 
at his gentle tones, but giving no proof that she un- 
derstood the import of his words. At Hilland’s 
name only she would start and tremble as if 
some deep chord were struck, which could merely 
vibrate until its sounds were faint and meaning- 
less. 

It was deeply touching also to observe in her sad 
eclipse how her ingrained refinement asserted itself. 
In all her half-conscious action there was never a 


428 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


coarse look or word. She was a rose without its 
perfume. She was a woman without a woman^s 
mind and heart. These had been subtracted, with 
all the differences they made ; otherwise she was 
Grace Hilland. 

Graham was profoundly perplexed and distressed. 
The problem had become too deep for him. The 
brain, nourished by good blood, had not brought 
life. All his skill and that of those allied with him 
had failed. The materialist had matter in the per- 
fection of breathing outline, but where was the 
woman he loved ? How could he reach her, how 
make himself understood by her, except as some 
timid, docile creature responds to a caress or a tone } 
His very power over her was terrifying. It was 
built upon the instinct, the allegiance that cannot 
reason but is unquestioning. Nothing could so 
have daunted his hope, courage, and will as the ex- 
quisite being Grace had become, as she looked up 
to him with her large, mild, trusting eyes, from 
which thought, intelligence, and volition had de- 
parted. 

At last Dr. Markham came, and for several days 
watched his patient closely, she giving little heed to 
his presence. They all hung on his perturbed looks 
with a painful anxiety. For a time he was very ret- 
icent, but one day he followed Graham to his quar- 
ters in Mrs. Mayburn's cottage, where he was now 
much alone. Grace seemed to miss him but 
slightly, although she always gave some sign of wel- 
come on his return. The mocking semblance of all 
that he could desire^often so tantalized him that her 


GRAHAM'S LAST SACRIFICE. 429 

presence became unendurable. The doctor found 
him pacing his room in a manner betokening his 
half-despairing perplexity. 

“ Colonel Graham,” he said, ” shall I surprise you 
when I say physicians are very fallible ? I know 
that it is not the habit of the profession to admit 
this, but I have not come here to talk nonsense to 
you. You have trusted me in this matter, and ad- 
mitted me largely into your confidence, and I shall 
speak to you in honest, plain English. Mrs. Hil- 
land's symptoms are very serious. What I feared 
has taken place. From her acute and prolonged 
mental distress and depression, of which she would 
have died had you not come, she reacted first into 
mental lethargy, and now into almost complete 
mental inactivity. I cannot discover that any dis- 
turbed physical functions have been an element in 
her mental aberration, for more perfect physical life 
and loveliness I have never seen. Her white hair, 
which might have made her look old, is a foil to a 
beauty which seems to defy age. 

” Pardon me for saying it, but I fear our treat- 
ment has been superficial. We men of the world 
may believe what we please, but to many natures, 
especially to an organization like Mrs. Hilland’s, 
hope and faith are essential. She has practically 
been without these from the first, and, as you 
know, she was sinking under the struggle main- 
tained by her own brave, womanly spirit. She was 
contending with more than actual bereavement. It 
was the hopelessness of the struggle that crushed 
her, for she is not one of that large class of women 


430 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


who can find consolation in crape and becoming 
mourning. 

“ In response to your appeal, she did make the 
effort you required, but it was the effort of a mind 
still without hope or faith, — one that saw no remedy 
for the evils that had already overwhelmed her, — 
and I must bear witness that her efforts were as sin- 
cere as they were pathetic. We all watched to give 
every assistance in our power. IVe lain awake 
nights, Colonel Graham, to think of remedies that 
would meet her needs ; and good Mrs. Mayburn 
and your old black cook. Aunt Sheba, prepared 
food fit for the gods. You were more untiring and 
effective than any of us, and the major’s very in- 
firmities were among her strongest allies. Well, we 
have the result, — a woman who might be a model 
for a goddess, even to her tranquil face, in which 
there is no trace of varying human feeling. Expla- 
nation of the evil that crushed her, hope, and faith 
were not given, — who can give them ? — but they 
were essential to her from the first. Unbelief, 
which is a refuge to some, was an abyss to her. In 
it she struggled and groped until her mind, appalled 
and discouraged and overwhelmed, refused to act at 
all. In one sense it is a merciful oblivion, in an- 
other a fatal one, from which she must be aroused 
if possible. But it’s a hard, hard case.” 

“You make it hard indeed,” said Graham, des- 
perately. “What faith can I instil except the 
one I have? I can’t lie, even for Grace Hilland. 
She knew well once that I could easily die for 
her.” 


GRAHAM'S LAST SACRIFICE. 431 

Well, then,” said the physician, “ permit a 
plain, direct question. Will you marry her ?” 

“ Marry her — as she now is?” cried Graham, in 
unfeigned astonishment. 

“ You said you could die for her. This may be 
going much farther. Indeed I should call it the 
triumph of human affection, for in honesty I must 
tell you that she may never be better, she may be- 
come worse. But I regard it as her only chance. 
At any rate, she needs a vigilant care-taker. Old 
Mrs. Mayburn will not be equal to the task much 
longer, and her place will have to be filled by hired 
service. I know it is like suggesting an almost im- 
possible sacrifice to broach even the thought, re- 
jnembering her condition, but — ” 

“ Dr. Markham,” said Graham, pacing the floor 
in great agitation, “you wholly misunderstand me. 
I was thinking of her, not of myself. What right 
have I to marry Grace Hilland without her consent ? 
She could give no intelligent assent at present.” 

“ The right of your love ; the right her husband 
gave when he committed her to your care ; the 
right of your desire to prevent her from drifting 
into hopeless, life-long imbecility, wherein she would 
be almost at the mercy of hired attendants, helpless 
to shield herself from. any and every wrong; the 
right of a man to sacrifice himself absolutely for an- 
other if he chooses.” 

“ But she might waken from this mental trance 
and feel that I had taken a most dishonorable ad- 
vantage of her helplessness.” 

“ Yes, you run that risk ; but here is one man 


432 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


who will assure her to the contrary, and you would 
be sustained by the consciousness of the purest mo- 
tives. It is that she may waken that I suggest the 
step ; mark, I do not advise it. As I said at first, I 
am simply treating you with absolute confidence and 
sincerity. If matters go on as they are, I have lit- 
tle or no hope. Mrs. Mayburn is giving way under 
the strain, and symptoms of her old disorder are 
returning. She cannot watch Mrs. Hilland much 
longer as she has been doing. Whom will you put 
in her place? Will you send Mrs. Hilland to an 
asylum, with its rules and systems and its unknown 
attendants ? Moreover, her present tranquil condi- 
tion may not last. She may become as violent as 
she now is gentle. She may gradually regain her 
intelligence, or it may be restored to her by some 
sudden shock. If the mysteries of the physical 
nature so baffle us, who can predict the future of a 
disordered intellect ? I have presented the darkest 
side of the picture ; I still think it has its bright 
side. She has no hereditary mental weakness to 
contend with. As it developed somewhat grad- 
ually, it may pass in the same manner. If you 
should marry her and take her at once to Europe, 
change of scene, of life, with your vigilant presence 
ever near, might become important factors in the 
problem. The memory that she was committed to 
your care has degenerated into a controlling in- 
stinct ; but that is far better than nothing. The 
only real question in my mind is. Are you willing to 
make the sacrifice and take the risks ? You know 


GRAHAM'S LAST SACRIFICE. 


43J 


the world will say you married her for her money, 
and that will be hard on a man like you." 

Graham made a gesture of contempt : " That for 
the world," he said. " Have you broached this 
subject to her father and my aunt ?" 

‘‘ Certainly not before speaking to you." 

"You then give me your assurance, as a man, 
that you believe this right, and that it is Grace Hil- 
land’s best chance, — indeed, almost her only chance, 
for recovery ?" 

" I do most unhesitatingly, and I shall do more. 
I shall bring from New York an eminent physician 
who has made mental disease a study all his life, 
•-and he shall either confirm my opinion or advise 
you better." 

" Do so. Dr. Markham," said Graham, very 
gravely. " I have incurred risks before in my life, 
but none like this. If from any cause Mrs. Hilland 
should recover memory and full intelligence, and 
reproach me for having taken advantage of a condi- 
tion which, even among savage tribes, renders the 
afflicted one sacred, all the fiendish tortures of the 
Inquisition would be nothing to what I should 
suffer. Still, prove to me, prove to her father, that 
it is her best chance, and for Grace Hilland I will 
take even this risk. Please remember there must 
be no professional generalities. I must have your 
solemn written statement that it is for Mrs. Hil- 
land’s sake I adopt the measure." 

"So be it," was the reply. " I shall telegraph 
to Dr. Armand immediately to expect/pie, and shall 


434 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS, 


say that I wish him to be prepared to come at 
once. 

“ Do so, and consider no question of expense. I 
am no longer poor, and if I were, I would mortgage 
my blood at this juncture." 

On the following evening Dr. Armand was almost 
startled by the vision on the veranda of the St. John 
cottage. A silvery-haired woman sat looking pla- 
cidly at the glowing sunset, with its light and its 
rose-hues reflected in her face. 

" If ever there was a picture of a glorified saint, 
there is one," he muttered, as he advanced and 
bowed. 

She gave him no attention, but with dark eyes, 
made brilliant by the level rays, she gazed steadily 
on the closing day. The physician stole a step or 
two nearer, and looked as steadily at her, while his 
experienced eye detected in all her illuminated 
beauty the absence of the higher, more subtle light 
of reason. Dr. Markham had told him next to noth- 
ing about the case, and had asked him to go and 
see for himself, impressing him only with the fact 
that it was a question of vital importance that he 
was to aid in deciding ; that he must give it his 
whole professional skill, and all the necessary time, 
regardless of expense. The moment he saw Grace, 
however, the business aspect of the affair passed 
from his mind. His ruling passion was aroused, 
and he was more than physician, — a student, — as 
the great in any calling ever are. 

Graham came to the door and recognized in- 
stinctively the intent, eagle-eyed man, who merely 


GJ^A HAM'S LAST SA CRIFICE, 


435 


nodded and motioned him to approach his patient. 
Graham did so, and Grace turned her eyes to him 
with a timid, questioning glance. He offered her 
his arm ; she rose instantly and took it, and began 
walking with him. 

“ Were you looking at the sunset, Grace ?” 

She turned upon him the same inquiring eyes, but 
did not answer. 

“ Do you not think it very beautiful? Does it 
not remind you of the sunset you saw on the even- 
ing when I returned from my first battle ?” 

She shook her head, and only looked perplexed. 

“Why, Grace,” he continued as if provoked, 
“ you must remember. I was carried, you know, 
and you and Mrs. Mayburn acted as if my scratches 
were mortal wounds.” 

She looked frightened at his angry tones, clasped 
her hands, and with tears in her eyes looked plead- 
ingly up to him. 

“ Dear Grace, don’t be worried.” He now spoke 
in the gentlest tones, and lifted her hand to his 
lips. A quick, evanescent smile illumined her face. 
She fawned against his shoulder a moment, placed 
his hand against her cheek, and then leaned upon 
his arm as they resumed their walk. Dr. Armand 
keeping near them without in the least attracting 
her attention. 

“Grace,” resumed Graham, “you must remem- 
ber. Hilland, Warren, you know.” 

She dropped his arm, looked wildly around, cov- 
ered her face with her hands, and shuddered con- 
vulsively. 


436 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


After a moment he said, kindly but firmly, 
“ Grace, dear Grace.” 

She sprang to him, seized his hand, and casting 
a look of suspicion at Dr, Armand, drew him 
away. 

A few moments later she was again looking tran- 
quilly at the west, but the light had departed from 
the sky and from her face. It had the look of one 
who saw not, thought and felt not. It was breath- 
ing, living death. 

Graham looked at her mournfully for a few mo- 
ments, and then, with a gesture that was almost 
despairing, turned to the physician, who had not 
lost a single expression. 

” Thank you,” was that gentleman’s first laconic 
remark ; and he dropped into a chair, still with his 
eyes on the motionless figure of Grace. 

At last he asked, ” How long would she maintain 
that position ?” 

” I scarcely know,” was the sad response ; 
” many hours certainly.” 

” Please let her retain it till I request you to in- 
terfere. The moon is rising almost full, the evening 
is warm, and she can take no harm.” 

The major tottered out on his crutches, and was 
given his chair, the physician meanwhile being in- 
troduced. Brief and courteous was Dr. Aimand’s 
acknowledgment, but he never took his eyes from 
his patient. The same was true of his greeting to 
Mrs. Mayburn ; but that good lady’s hospitable in- 
stincts soon asserted themselves, and she announced 
that dinner was ready. 


GRAHAM'S LAST SACRIFICE. 


437 


Take Mrs. Hilland to dinner,” said the phy- 
sician to Graham ; ” but first introduce me.” 

The young man approached and said, ” Grace.” 
She rose instantly and took his arm. ” This is Dr. 
Armand, Grace. He has called to see you.” She 
made him a courteous inclination, and then turned 
to Graham to see what next was expected of her, 
but he only led her to the dining-room. 

” Gracie, darling, bring me my cushion,” said her 
father, speaking as he had been used to do when 
she was a little girl. 

She brought it mechanically and arranged it, then 
stood in expectancy. ” That will do, dear ;” and 
she returned to her seat in silence. Throughout 
the meal she maintained this silence, although Dr. 
Armand broached many topics, avoiding only the 
name of her husband. Her manner was that of a 
little, quiet, well-bred child, who did not under- 
stand what was said, and had no interest in it. The 
physician’s scrutiny did not embarrass her ; she had 
never remembered, much less forgotten him. 

When the meal was over they all returned to the 
piazza. At the physician’s request she was placed 
in her old seat, and they all sat down to watch. 
The moon rose higher and higher, made her hair 
more silvery, touched her still face with a strange, 
ethereal beauty, and threw the swaying shadow of a 
spray of woodbine across her motionless figure, — so 
motionless that she seemed a sculptured rather than 
a breathing woman. 

After a while the old major rose and groaned as 
he tottered away. Mrs. Mayburn, in uncontrollablo 


43S 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS, 


nervous restlessness, soon followed, that she might 
find relief in household cares. The two men 
watched on till hours had passed, and still the lovely 
image had not stirred. At last Dr. Armand ap- 
proached her and said, “ Mrs. Hilland.” 

She rose, and stood coldly aloof. The name, 
with her prefix, did not trouble her. She had long 
been accustomed to that. “ Hilland,’’ as Graham 
uttered the word, alone affected her, touching some 
last deep chord of memory. 

“ Mrs. Hilland," the doctor continued, “ it is get- 
ting late. Do you not think you had better retire ?” 

She looked at him blankly, and glanced around as 
if in search of some one. 

“ I am here, Grace,” said Graham, emerging from 
the dporway. 

She came to him at once, and he led her to Mrs. 
Mayburn, kissing her hand, and receiving, in return, 
her strange, brief, fawning caress. 

“ I would like to know the history of Mrs. Hil- 
land’s malady from the beginning,” said Dr. Ar- 
mand, when Graham returned. 

“I cannot go over it again,” replied Graham, 
hoarsely. ” Dr. Markham can tell you about all, 
and I will answer any questions. Your room is 
ready for you here, where Dr. Markham will join 
you presently. I must bid you good-night ;” and 
he strode away. 

But as he passed under the apple-tree and re- 
called all that had occurred there, he was so over- 
come that once more he leaned against it for sup- 
port. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


MARRIED UNCONSCIOUSLY. 

T here was no sleep for Graham that night, for 
he knew that two skilful men were consulting 
on a question beyond any that had agitated his 
heart before. As he paced the little parlor with 
restless steps, Aunt Sheba’s ample form filled the 
doorway, and in her hands was a tray bearing such 
coffee as only she knew how to brew, 

“ Thanks, Aunt Sheba," he said, motioning to a 
table, without pausing in his distracted walk. 

She put down the tray, retreated hesitatingly, 
and then began : " Dear Mas’r Graham, my ole 
heart jes aches for yer. But don’t yer be so cast 
down, mas’r ; de good Lord knows it all, and I'se a 
prayin’ for yer and de lubly Miss Grace night and 
day." 

He was so utterly miserable that he was grateful 
for even this homely sympathy, and he took the old 
woman’s hand in his as he said kindly, " Pray on, 
then, good old aunty, if it’s any comfort to you. 
It certainly can do no harm." 

" O Mas’r Graham, you dunno, you dunno. Wid 
all yer wise knowin’, yer dunno. You’se all — good 


440 


HIS SOMBRE rivals: 


Mis' Mayburn, de ole major, an’ all — are in de dark 
land ob unbelievin’, like poor Missy Grace. She 
doesn’t know how you’se all tink about her an’ lub 
her ; needer does you know how de good Lord tinks 
about you and lubs you. You guv me my liberty ; 
you guv what I tinks a sight more on ; you’se been 
kind to de poor ole slave dat los’ all her chillen in 
de weary days dat’s gone. I’se a ’memberin’ yer 
all de time. You hab no faith, Mas’r Graham, and 
poor ole Aunt Sheba mus’ hab faith for yer. An’ 
so I will. I'se a wrastlin’ wid de Lord for yer all 
de time, an' I’se a gwine ter wrastle on till I sees 
yer an’ Missy Grace an’ all cornin’ inter de light 
and she threw her apron over her head, and went 
sobbing away. 

He paused for a moment when she left him, 
touched deeply by the strong, homely, human sym- 
pathy and gratitude of the kind old soul who fed 
him — as he never forgot — when he was a fugitive in 
a hostile land. That she had manifested her feel- 
ing after what he deemed her own ignorant, super- 
stitious fashion was nothing. It was the genuine 
manifestation of the best human traits that touched 
him, — pure gems illumining a nature otherwise so 
clouded and crude. 

Late at night footsteps approached, and the two 
physicians entered. “ L first permitted Dr. Ar- 
mand to form his own impressions, and since have 
told him everything,” said Dr. Markham, ” and he 
strongly inclines to my view. Realizing the gravity 
of the case, however, he has consented to remain a 
day or two longer. We will give you no hasty 


MARRIED UNCONSCIOUSLY. 


441 


opinion, and you shall have time on your part to 
exercise the most deliberate judgment.” 

Dr. Armand confirmed his associate’s words, and 
added, “ We will leave you now to the rest you 
must need sorely. Let me assure you, however, 
that I do not by any means consider Mrs. Hilland’s 
case hopeless, and that I am strongly impressed 
with the belief that her recovery must come through 
you. A long train of circumstances has given you 
almost unbounded influence over her, as you en- 
abled me to see this evening. It would be sad to 
place such a glorious creature in the care of stran- 
gers, for it might involve serious risk should she 
regain her memory and intelligence with no strong, 
sympathetic friend, acquainted with her past, near 
her. I am inclined to think that what is now little 
more than an instinct will again develop into a 
memory, and that the fact that she was committed 
to your care will fully reconcile her to the marriage, 
— indeed, render her most grateful for it, if capable 
of understanding the reasons which led to it. If 
further observation confirms my present impres- 
sions, I and Dr. Markham will plainly state our 
opinions to her father and Mrs. Mayburn. As my 
colleague has said, you must comprehend the step 
in all its bearings. It is one that I would not ask 
any man to take. I now think that the probabili- 
ties are that it would restore Mrs. Hilland to health 
eventually. A year of foreign travel might bring 
about a gradual and happy change.” 

” Take time to satisfy yourselves, gentlemen, and 
give me your decision as requested. Then you 


442 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


have my permission to give your opinions to Major 
St. John.” 

Within a week this was done, and the poor old 
man bowed his head on Graham’s shoulder and wept 
aloud in his gratitude. Mrs. Mayburn also, wiping 
away her tears, faltered, “You know, Alford, how 
I schemed for this marriage years ago ; you remem- 
ber my poor blind strategy on that June day, do 
you not 1 How little I thought it would take place 
under circumstances like these ! And yet, IVe 
thought of it of late often, very often. I could not 
go on much longer, for I am old and feeble, and it 
just broke my heart to think of Grace, our Grace, 
passing into the hands of some hired and indifferent 
stranger or strangers. I believe she will recover 
and reward your sacrifice. ” 

“ It is no sacrifice on my part, aunt, except she 
wakens only to reproach me.” 

“ Well, devotion, then ; and little sense she’d 
ever have,” concluded the old lady, after her own 
brusque fashion, ” if she does not fall on her knees 
and bless you. You could now take better care of 
her than I, for she trusts and obeys you implicitly. 
She is docile and gentle with me, but often strangely 
inattentive. She would be still more so with a 
stranger ; and the idea of some strong, unfeeling 
hands forcing her into the routine of her life !” 

Thus almost completely was removed from his 
mind the unspeakable dread lest he was taking an 
unfair advantage of helplessness. He fully recog- 
nized also that the ordeal for himself would be a 
terrible one, — that it would be the fable of Tantalus 


MARRIED UNCOMSClOXtSLY. 


443 


repeated for weeks, months, perhaps for years, of 
for life. The unfulfilled promise of happiness would 
ever be before him. His dark-visaged rivals. Grief 
and Death, would jeer and mock at him from a face 
of perfect beauty. In a blind, vindictive way he 
felt that his experience was the very irony of fate. 
He could clasp the perfect ma^rial form of a 
woman to his heart, and at the same time his heart 
be breaking for what could not be seen or touched. 

The question, however, was decided irrevocably. 
He knew that he could not leave helpless Grace 
Hilland to the care of strangers, and that there was 
no place for him in the world but at her side ; and 
yet it was with something of the timidity and hesi- 
tation of a lover that he asked her, as they paced a 
shady garden-walk, “Grace, dear Grace, will you 
marry me ?“ 

His voice was very low and gentle, and yet she 
turned upon him a startled, inquiring look. “ Mar- 
ry you ?’ ’ she repeated slowly. 

“ Yes, let me take care of you always,” he re- 
plied, smilingly, and yet as pale almost as herself. 

The word “ care” reassured her, and she gave 
him her wonted smile -of content, as she replied, 
very slowly, “Yes. I want you to take care of me 
always. Who else can ?” 

“ That’s what I mean by marrying you, — taking 
care of you always,” he said, raising her hand to 
his lips. 

“You are always to take care of me,” she replied, 
leaning her head on his shoulder for a moment. 

“ Mrs. Mayburn is not strong enough to take care 


444 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


of you any longer. She will take care of your 
father. V/ill you let me take care of you as she 
does ?” 

She smiled contentedly, for the word “ care" ap- 
peared to make all natural and right. 

It was arranged that they should be married in 
the presence of Dr. Markham, Aunt Sheba, and 
Jinny, in addition to those so deeply interested. 
The physician prepared the clergyman for the cere- 
mony, which was exceedingly brief and simple, 
Grace smiling into Graham’s face when he promised 
to take care of her always, and she signifying her 
consent and pleasure in the manner that was so 
mute and sad. Then he told’ her that he was going 
to take her away, that she might get perfectly 
strong and well ; and she went at his request with- 
out hesitancy, although seeming to wonder slightly 
at the strong emotion of her father and Mrs. May- 
burn when parting from her. Jinny, who had' been 
her nurse in childhood, accompanied her. Dr. Mark- 
ham also went with them as far as the steamer, and 
they sailed away into a future as vague and un- 
known to them as the ocean they were crossing. 

The waves seen from the deck of the steamer pro- 
duced in Grace the same content with which she had 
gazed at them from the shore during the previous 
summer ; only now there were faint signs of wonder 
in her expression, and sometimes of perplexity. 
Her eyes also wandered around the great vessel 
with something of the interest of a child, but she 
asked no questions. That Graham was with her 
and smiled reassuringly seemed sufficient, while the 


MARK /ED UNCON SCI O USE Y. 


445 


presence of her old colored nurse, who in some dim 
way was connected with her past, gave also an addi- 
tional sense of security. 

As time elapsed and they began their wanderings 
abroad, it seemed to Graham that his wife was be- 
ginning life over again, as a very little quiet child 
would observe the strange and unaccountable phe- 
nomena about it. Instead of her fixed vacancy of 
gaze, her eyes began to turn from object to object 
with a dawning yet uncomprehending interest. He 
in simplest words sought to explain and she to 
listen, though it was evident that their impression 
was slight indeed. Still there was perceptible prog- 
ress, and when in his tireless experimenting he be- 
gan to bring before her those things which would 
naturally interest a child, he was encouraged to note 
that they won a larger and more pleased attention. 
A garden full of flowers, a farm-yard with its sleek, 
quiet cattle, a band of music, a broad, funny panto- 
mime, were far more to her than Westminster 
Abbey or St. Paul’s. Later, the variety, color, and 
movement of a Paris boulevard quite absorbed her 
attention, and she followed one object after another 
with much the same expression that might be seen 
on the face of a little girl scarcely three years old. 
This* infantile expression, in contrast with her silver 
hair and upon her mature and perfect features, was 
pathetic to the last degree, and yet Graham rejoiced 
with exceeding joy. With every conscious glance 
and inquiring look the dawn of hope brightened. 
He was no longer left alone in the awful solitude of 
living death. The beautiful form was no longer like 


446 HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 

a descried home. It now had a tenant, even though 
it seemed but the mind of a little child. The rays 
of intelligence sent out were feeble indeed, but how 
much better than the blank darkness that had pre- 
ceded ! Something like happines? began to soften 
and brighten the husband’s face as he took his 
child-wife here and there. He made the long 
galleries of the Louvre and of Italy her picture- 
books, and while recognizing that she was pleased 
with little more than color, form, and action, — that 
the sublime, equally with the vicious and supersti- 
tious meanings of the great masters, were hidden, — 
he was nevertheless cheered and made more hopeful 
by the fact that she was pleased and observant, — 
that she began to single out favorites ; and before 
these he would let her stand as long as she chose, 
and return to them when so inclined. 

She had lost the power of reading a line. She 
did not know even her letters ; and these he began 
to teach her with unflagging zeal and patience. 
How the mysterious problem would end he could 
not tell. It might be that by kindling a little light 
the whole past would become illumined ; it might 
be that he would have to educate her over again ; 
but be the future what it would, the steadfast prin- 
ciple of devotion to her became more fixed, and to 
care*for her the supreme law of his being. 

From the time of his first message to them he 
had rarely lost an opportunity to send a letter to 
the anxious ones at home, and their replies abound- 
ed in solicitous, grateful words. Dr. Markham often 
called, and rubbed his hands with increasing self- 


MA RRIED UN CON SCI 0 USL Y. 


447 


gratulation over the success of his bold measure, 
especially as encomiums on his sagacity had been 
passed by the great Dr. Armand. 

Nearly a year had passed, and Graham and his 
wife, after their saunterings over the Continent, 
were spending the summer in the Scottish High- 
lands. They sailed on the lochs, fished from their 
banks, and climbed the mountain passes on little 
shaggy ponies that were Scotch in their stubborn- 
ness and unflinching endurance. Grace had become 
even companionable in her growing intelligence, 
and in the place of her silent, inquiring glances 
there were sometimes eager, childlike questionings. 

Of late, however, Graham noted the beginnings 
of another change. With growing frequency she 
passed her hand over her brow, that was contracted 
in perplexity. Sometimes she would look at him 
curiously, at Jinny, and at the unfamiliar scenes of 
her environment, then shake her head as if she 
could not comprehend it all. Speedily, however, 
she would return with the zest of a quiet little girl 
to the pleasures and tasks that he unweariedly pro- 
vided. But Graham grew haggard and sleepless in 
his vigilance, for he believed that the time of her 
awakening was near. 

One day, while sailing on a loch, they were over- 
taken by a heavy storm and compelled to run be- 
fore it, and thus to land at no little distance from 
their inn. Grace showed much alarm at the dashing 
waves and howling tempest. Nor was her fright at 
the storm wholly that of an unreasoning child. Its 
fury seemed to arouse and shock her, and while she 


448 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


clung to Graham’s hand, she persisted in sitting up- 
right and looking about, as if trying to comprehend 
it all. After landing they had a long, fatiguing 
ride in the darkness, and she was unusually silent. 
On reaching her room she glanced around as if all 
was unfamiliar and incomprehensible. Graham had 
a presentiment that the hour was near, and he left 
her wholly to the care of her old colored nurse, but 
almost immediately, from excessive weariness, she 
sank into a deep slumber. 

Her lethargy lasted so late in the following day 
that he was alarmed, fearing lest her old symptoms 
were returning. With anxious, hollow eyes he 
watched and waited, and at last she awoke and 
looked at him with an expression that he had 
longed for through many weary months, and yet 
now it terrified him. 

“ Alford, — Mr. Graham,” she began, in deep sur- 
prise. 

‘‘ Hush, dear Grace. You have been very ill.” 

“Yes, but where am I ? What has happened ?” 

“ Very much ; but you are better now. Here is 
Jinny, your old n*urse, who took care of you as a 
child.” 

The old colored woman came in, and, as in- 
structed, said, “ Yes, honey, I’se tooken care ob 
you since you was a baby, and I’se nebber lef’ you.” 

“ Everything looks very strange. Why, Alford, 
I had a long, sad talk with you but a short time 
since in the library, and you were so kind and un- 
selfish !” 

“Yes, Grace ; we spoke frankly to each other, 


MARRIED UNCONSCIOUSLY, 


449 


but you have been very ill -since then, worse than 
ever before. At your father’s request and Dr. 
Markham’s urgent counsel, I brought you to Europe. 
It was said to be your only chance.” 

” But where is Mrs. Mayburn ?” 

” She is at home taking care of your father. Her 
old sickness threatened to return. She could take 
care of you no longer, and you needed constant 
care. ’ ’ 

A slow, deep flush overspread her face and even 
her neck as she faltered, ” And — and — has no one 
else been with me but Jinny?” 

” No one else except myself. Grace, dear Grace, 
I am your husband. I was married to you in the 
presence of your father, Mrs. Mayburn, and your 
family physician.” 

” How long since?” she asked, in a constrained 
voice. 

” About a*year ago.” 

” Have we been abroad ever since ?” 

” Yes, and you have been steadily improving. 
You were intrusted to my care, and there came a 
time when I must either be faithful to that trust, or 
place you in the hands of strangers. You were 
helpless, dear Grace.” 

” Evidently,” in the same low, oonstrained tone. 
” Could — could you not have fulfilled your trust in 
some other way ?” 

“Your father, your second mother, and your 
physician thought not.” 

“ Still—” she began, hesitated, and again came 
that deep, deep flush. . 


450 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS, 


“ For your sake, Grace, I incurred the risk of this 
awful moment.’' 

She turned, and saw an expression which brought 
tears to her eyes. “ I cannot misjudge you,” she 
said slowly ; ” the past forbids that. But I cannot 
understand it, I cannot understand it at all.” 

” Perhaps you never will, dear Grace ; I took that 
risk also to save your life and mind.” 

” My mind ?” 

“Yes, your mind. If, in recalling the past, the 
memory of which has returned, you can preserve 
sufficient confidence in me to wait till all is clear 
and explained, I shall be profoundly grateful. I 
foresaw the possibility of this hour ; I foresaw it as 
the chief danger and trial of my life ; and I took 
the risk of its consequences for your sake because 
assured by the highest authority that it was your 
one chance for escape, not from death, but from a 
fate worse than death, which also wcmld have re- 
moved you from my care, — indeed the care of all 
who loved you. I have prepared myself for this 
emergency as well as I could. Here are letters 
from your father, Mrs. Mayburn, Dr. Markham, and 
Dr. Armand, one of the most eminent authorities in 
the world on brain diseases. But after all I must be 
judged by your woman’s heart, and so stand or fall. 
I now have but one request, or entreaty rather, to 
make, — that you do not let all the efforts we have 
made in your behalf be in vain. Can you not 
calmly and gradually receive the whole truth ? 
There must be no more relapses, or they will end in 
black ruin to us all. Now that you can think for 


MARRIED UNCONSCIOUSLY. 


45 


yourself, your slightest wislvshall be my law. Jinny, 
remain with your mistress.” 

He lifted her passive hand to his lips, passed into 
their little parlor, and closed the door. Grace 
turned to her nurse, and in low, almost passionate 
utterance, said, ” Now tell me all.” 

” Lor’ bress you, Missy Grace, it ’ud take a right 
smart time to tell yer all. When de big doctors an’ 
all de folks say you’se got to hab strangers take 
care ob you or go ter a ’sylum, and arter all you’d 
git wuss, Mas’r Graham he guv in, and said he’d 
take care ob you, and dey all bress ’im and tank 
’im, and couldn’t say ’nuff. Den he took you ’cross 
de big ocean — golly ! how big it be — jes’ as de doc- 
tor said ; an’ nebber hab I seed sich lub, sich 
’votion in a moder as Mas’r Graham hab had fer 
you. He had to take care ob you like a little chile, 
an’ he was teachin’ you how to read like a little 
chile when, all on a suddint, you wakes up an’ 
knows ebryting you’se forgotten. But de part you 
doesn’t know is de part mos’ wuth knowin’. No 
woman eber had sich a husban’ as Mas’r Graham, 
an’ no chile sich a moder. ’Clar’ ter grashus ef I 
b’lieve he’s ebber slep’ a wink wid his watchin’ an’ 
a tinkin’ what he could do fer you.” 

” But, Jinny, I’m not ill ; I never felt stronger in 
my life.” 

” Laws, Missy Grace, dars; been a mirackle. 
You’se strong ’nuff ’cept yoiir mine’s been off 
wisitin’ somewhar. Golly ! you jes’ git up and 
let me dress you, an’ I’ll show yer de hansom- 
est woman in de work. All yer’s got ter do now 


452 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


is jes' be sensible like, an’ yer won’t have yei 
match.” 

Grace cast an apprehensive look toward the door 
of the parlor in which was her husband, and then 
said hurriedly, “Yes, dress me quick. O heavens ! 
how nvuch I have to think about, to realize !” 

“ Now, honey dear, you jes’ keep cool. Don’t 
go an’ fly right off de handle agin, or Mas’r Gra- 
ham'll blow his brains out. Good Lor’, how dat 
man do look sometimes ! An’ yet often, when he 
was pintin’ out yer letters ter yer, or showin’ yer 
pearty tings, like as you was a chile, he look so hap- 
py and gentle like, dat I say he jes’ like a moder. ” 

Grace was touched, and yet deep, deep in her 
soul she felt that a wrong had been done her, no 
matter what had been the motives. Jinny had no 
such fine perceptions, but with a 'feminine tact 
which runs down through the lowliest natures, she 
chose one of Grace’s quietest, yet most becoming 
costumes, and would not let her go to the glass till 
arrayed to the dusky woman’s intense satisfaction. 
Then she led her mistress to the mirror and said, 
“ Look dar, honey ! All de picters you’se eber 
seen can’t beat dat !” and Grace gazed long and 
fixedly at the lovely creature that gazed back with 
troubled and bewildered eyes. 

“ Was — was I like that when — when he married 
me?” 

“ Yes, an’ no, honey. You only look like a 
picter of a woman den, — a berry pearty picter, but 
nothin’ but a picter arter all. Mas’r Graham hab 
brought yer ter life.” 


MARRIED UNCONSCIOUSLY. 


453 


With another lingering, wondering glance at her- 
self, she turned away and said, “ Leave me, now, 
Jinny ; I wish to be alone.” 

The woman hesitated, and was about to speak, 
but Grace waved her away imperiously, and sat down 
to the letters Graham had given her. She read and 
re-read them. They confirmed his words. She was 
a wife : her husband awaited her but a few feet 
away, — her husband y and she had never dreamed of 
marrying again. The past now stood out luminous 
to her, and Warren Hilland was its centre. But 
another husband awaited her, — one whom she had 
never consciously promised ” to love, honor, ancL 
obey.” As a friend she could worship him, obey 
him, die for him ; but as her husbandy — how could 
she sustain that mysterious bond which merges one 
life in another ? She was drawn toward him by 
every impulse of gratitude. She saw that, whether 
misled or not, he had been governed by the best of 
motives, — nay, more, by the spirit of self-sacrifice 
in its extreme manifestation, — that he had been 
made to believe that it was .her only chance for 
health and life. Still, in her deepest consciousness 
he was but Alford Graham, the friend most loved 
and trusted, whom she had known in her far distant 
home, yet not her husband. How could she go to 
him, what could she say to him, in their new rela- 
tions that seemed so unreal ? 

She trembled to leave him longer in the agony of 
suspense ; but her limbs refused to support her, and 
her woman’s heart shrank with a strange and 
hitherto unknown feaft 


454 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


There was a timid knock at the door. 

“ Come in, Alford,’' she said, tremblingly. 

He stood before her haggard, pale, and expectant. 

“ Alford,” she said, sadly, “ why did you not let 
me die ?” 

“ I could not,” he replied, desperately. ” As I 
told you, there is a limit to every man’s strength. 
I see it all in your face and manner, — what I feared, 
what I warned Dr. Markham against. Listen to 
me. I shall take you home at once. You are well. 
You will not require my further care, and you need 
never see my face again.” 

‘‘ And you, Alford ?” she faltered. 

” Do not ask about me. Beyond the hour when 
I place you in your father’s arms I know nothing. 
I have reached my limit. I have made the last 
sacrifice of which I am capable. If you go back as 
you are now, you are saved from a fate which it 
seemed to me you would most shrink from could 
you know it, — the coarse, unfeeling touch and care 
of strangers who could have treated you in your 
helplessness as they chose. You might have re- 
gained your reason years hence, only to find that 
those who loved you were broken-hearted, lost, 
gone. They are now well and waiting for you. 
Here are their letters, written from week to week 
and breathing hope and cheer. Here is the last 
one from your father, written in immediate response 
to mine. In it he says, ‘ My hand trembles, but it 
is more from joy than age.’ You were gaining 
steadily, although only as a child’s intelligence de- 
velops. He writes, ‘ I shall have my little Grace 


MARRIED UNCONSCIOUSLY. 


455 


once more, and see her mind grow up into her beau- 
tiful form.’ ” 

She bent her head low to hide the tears that were 
falling fast as she faltered, ‘‘Was it wholly self- 
sacrifice when you married me?” 

“ Yes, — in the fear of this hour, the bitterest of 
my life, — yes. It has followed me like a spectre 
through every waking and sleeping hour. Please 
make the wide distinction. My care for you, the 
giving up of my life for you, is nothing. That I 
should have done in any case, as far as I could. 
But with my knowledge of your nature and your 
past, I could not seem to take advantage of your 
helplessness without an unspeakable dread. When 
shown by the best human skill that I could thus 
save you, or at least insure that you would ever 
have gentle, sympathetic care, I resolved to risk 
the last extremity of evil to myself for your sake. 
Now you have the whole truth.” 

She rose and came swiftly to him, — for he had 
scarcely entered the room in his wish to show her 
respect, — and putting her arm around his neck, 
while she laid her head upon his breast, said gently 
and firmly : “ The sacrifice shall not be all on your 
side. I have never consciously promised to be your 
wife, but now, as far as my poor broken spirit will 
permit, I do promise it. But be patient with me, 
Alford. Do not expect what I have not the power 
to give. I can only promise that all there is left of 
poor Grace Hilland’s heart — if aught — shall be 
yours.” 

Then for the first time in his life the strong man 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


456 

gave way. He disengaged her so hastily as to seem 
almost rough, and fell forward on the couch uncon- 
scious. The long strain of years had culminated in 
the hour he so dreaded, and in the sudden revulsion 
caused by her words nature gave way. 

Almost frantic with terror, Grace summoned her 
servant, and help from the people of the inn. For- 
tunately an excellent English physician was stop- 
ping at the same house, and he was speedily at 
work. Graham recovered, only to pass into mutter- 
ing delirium, and the burden of his one sad refrain 
was, “ If she should never forgive me !” 

“Great heavens, madam! what has he done ?“ 
asked the matter-of-fact Englishman. 

What a keen probe that question was to the wife 
as she sat watching through the long, weary night ! 
In an agony of self-reproach she recalled all that he 
had done for her and hers in all the years, and now 
in her turn she entreated him to live ; but he was as 
unconscious as she had been in the blank past. No 
wooing, no pleading, could have been so potent as 
his unconscious form, his strength broken at last in 
her service. 

“ O God 1“ she cried, — forgetting in her anguish 
that she had no God, — “ have I been more cruel 
than all the war? Have I given him the wound 
that shall prove fatal, — him who saved Warren’s 
life, my own, my reason, and everything that a 
woman holds dear ?“ 

Graham’s powerful and un vitiated nature soon 
rallied, however, and under skilful treatment the 
fever within a few days gave place to the first deep 


MA RRIE'd UN CO NSC 10 U SLY. 457 

happiness he had ever known. Grace was tender, 
considerate, her own former self, and with some- 
thing sweeter to him than self-sacrifice in her eyes ; 
and he gave himself up to an unspeakable content. 

It was she who wrote the home letters that week, 
and a wondrous tale they told to the two old peo- 
ple, who subsisted on foreign news even more than 
on Aunt Sheba’s delicate cookery. 

Graham was soon out again, but he looked older 
and more broken than his wife, who seemingly had 
passed by age into a bloom that could not fade. 
She decided that for his sake they would pass the 
winter in Italy, and that he should show her again 
as a woman what he had tried to interest her in as a 
child. Her happiness, although often deeply shad- 
owed, grew in its quiet depths. Graham had too 
much tact to be an ardent lover. He was rather 
her stanch friend, her genial but most considerate 
companion. His powerful human love at last kin- 
dled a quiet flame on the hearth of her own heart 
that had so long been cold, and her life was warmed 
and revived by it. He also proved in picture gal- 
leries and cathedrals that he had seen much when 
he was abroad beyond wild mountain regions and 
wilder people, and her mind, seemingly strengthened 
by its long sleep, followed his vigorous criticism 
with daily increasing zest. 

The soft, sun-lighted air of Italy appeared to 
have a healing balm for both, and even to poor 
Grace there came a serenity which she had not 
known since the “ cloud in the South” first cast its 
.shadow over her distant hearth. 


458 HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 

To Graham at last there had come a respite from 
pain and fear, a deep .content. His inner life had 
been too impoverished, and his nature too chastened 
by stern and bitter experience, for him to crave 
gayety and exuberant sentiment in his wife. Her 
quiet face, in which now was the serenity of rest, 
and not the tranquillity of death in life, grew daily 
more lovely to him ; and he was not without his 
human pride as he saw the beauty-loving Italians 
look wonderingly at her. She in turn was pleased 
to observe how he impressed cultivated people with 
his quiet power, with a presence that such varied 
experiences had combined to create. Among fine 
minds, men and women are more truly felt than 
seen. We meet people of the plainest appearance 
and most unostentatious manner, and yet without 
effort they compel us to recognize their superiority, 
while those who seek to impress others with their 
importance are known at once to be weak and insig- 
nificant. 

It was also a source of deep gratification to 
Grace that now, since her husband had obtained 
rest of mind, he turned naturally to healthful busi- 
ness interests. Her own affairs, of which he had 
charge in connection with Hilland’s lawyer, were 
looked after and explained fully to her ; and his 
solicitude for Henry Anderson’s success led to an 
exchange of letters with increasing frequency. 
Much business relating to the Virginia plantation 
was transacted on the shores of the Mediterranean. 

Grace sought to quiet her compunctions at leaving 
her father and Mrs. Mayburn so long by frequent 


MARRIED UNCONSCIO USL Y. 


459 


letters written in her dear old style, by cases of Ital- 
ian wines, delicate and rare ; -exquisite fabrics of the 
loom, and articles of vertu ; and between the letters 
and the gifts the old people held high carnival after 
their quaint fashion all that winter. 

The soft Italian days lapsed one after another, 
like bright smiles on the face of nature ; but at last 
there came one on which Grace leaned her head 
upon her husband’s shoulder and whispered, “ Al- 
ford, take me home, please.” 

Had he cared for her before, when she was as 
helpless as a little child ? Jinny, in recalling that 
journey and in dilating on the wonders of her ex- 
perience abroad, by which she invariably struck awe 
into the souls of Aunt Sheba and Iss, would roll up 
her eyes, and turn outward the palms of her hands, 
as she exclaimed, ” Good Lor’, you niggers, how I 
make you ’prehen’ Mas’r Graham’s goin’s on from 
de night he sez, sez he ter me, ‘ Pack up, Jinny ; 
we’se a gwine straight home.’ ‘Iss ’dares dat Mas’r 
Graham’s a ter’ble soger wid his long, straight 
sword and pistol, an’ dat he’s laid out more ’Feder- 
ates dan he can shake a stick at. Well, you’d neb- 
ber b’lieve he’d a done wuss dan say, ‘ How d’ye ’ 
to a ’Federate ef yer’d seen how he ’volved roun’ 
Missy Grace. He wouldn’t let de sun shine on her, 
nor de win’ blow near her, and eberybody had ter 
git right up an’ git ef she eben wanted ter sneeze. 
On de ship he had eberybody, from de cap’n to de 
cabin-boys, a waitin’ on her. Dey all said we hab 
a mighty quiet v’yage, but Lor’ bress yer ! it was 
all ’long ob Mas’r Graham. He wouldn’t let no 


46 o 


HIS SOMBaE rivals. 


wabes run ter pitch his darlin’ roun’. Missy Grace, 
she used ter sit an’ larf an’ larf at ’im,~bress her 
dear heart, how much good it do me to hear de 
honey larf like her ole dear self ! Her moder used 
ter be mighty keerful on her; but ’twan’t nothin’ 
’pared ter Mas’r Graham’s goin’s on.” 

Jinny had never heard of Baron Munchausen, but 
her accounts of foreign experiences and scenes were 
much after the type of that famous raconteur ; and 
by each repetition her stories seemed to make a 
portentous growth. There was, however, a resi- 
duum of truth in all her marvels. The event which 
she so vaguely foreshadowed by ever-increasing 
clouds of words took place. In June, when the 
nests around the cottage were full of little birds, 
there was also, in a downy, nestlike cradle, a minia- 
ture of sweet Grace Graham ; and Jinny thenceforth 
was the oracle of the kitchen. 


CHAPTER XL. 


RITA ANDERSON. 

T he belief of children that babies are brought 
from heaven seems often verified by the ex- 
periences that follow their advent. And truly the 
baby at the St. John cottage was a heavenly gift, 
even to the crotchety old major, whom it kept 
awake at night by its unseasonable complaints of 
the evils which it encountered in spite of Grandma 
Mayburn, faithful old Aunt Sheba, who pleaded to 
be its nurse, and the gentle mother, who bent over 
it with a tenderness new and strange even to her 
heart. 

She could laugh now, and laugh she would, when 
Graham, with a trepidation never felt in battle, took 
the tiny morsel of humanity, and paraded up and 
down the library. Lying back on the sofa in one of 
her dainty wrappers, she would cry, “ Look at him, 
papa ; look at that grim cavalry man, and think of 
his leading a charge !” 

“ Well, Grade, dear,’’ the old major would reply, 
chuckling at his well-worn joke, “ the colonel was 
only a cavalry man, you know. He’s not up in in- 
fantry tactics. ” 


462 


iris SOMBRE RIVALS, 


One morning Grandma Mayburn opened a high 
conclave in regard to the baby’s name, and sought 
to settle the question in advance by saying, “ Of 
course it should be Grace.” 

“ Indeed, madam,” differed the major, gallantly, 

” I think it should be named after its grandmother.” 

Grace lifted her eyes inquiringly to her husband, 
who stood regarding what to him was the Madonna 
and child. 

” I have already named her,” he said, quietly. 

” You, you !” cried his aunt, brusquely. ” I’d 
have you know that this is an affair for grave and 
general deliberation.” 

” Alford shall have his way,” said the mother, 
with quiet emphasis, looking down at the child, while 
pride and tenderness blended sweetly in her face. 

” Her name is Hilda, in memory of the noblest 
man and dearest friend I have ever known.” 

Instantly she raised her eyes, brimming with, 
tears, to his, and faltered, ” Thank you, Alford ;” 
and she clasped the child almost convulsively to her 
breast, proving that there was one love which no 
other could obliterate. 

” That’s right, dear Grace Link her name with 
the memory of Warren. She will thus make you 
happier, and it’s my wish.” 

The conclave ended at once. The old major took 
off his spectacles to wipe his eyes, and Mrs. May- 
burn stole away. 

From that hour little Hilda pushed ‘sorrow from 
Grace’s heart with her baby hands, as nothing had 
ever done before, and the memory of the lost hus- 


J^ITA ANDERSON, 


463 


band ceased to be a shadow in the background. 
The innocent young life was associated with his, 
and loved the more intensely. 

Graham had spoken from the impulse of a gen- 
erous nature, too large to feel the miserable jealous- 
ies that infest some minds ; but he had spoken more 
wisely than he knew. Thereafter there was a ten- 
derness in Grace’s manner toward him which he had 
never recognized before. He tasted a happiness of 
which he had never dreamed, alloyed only by the 
thought that his treasures were mortal and frail. 
But as the little one thrived, and his wife bloomed 
into the most exquisite beauty seen in this world, 
that of young and happy motherhood, he gave him- 
self up to his deep content, believing that fate at 
last was appeased. The major grew even hilarious, 
and had his morning and evening parades, as he 
called them, when the baby, in its laces and soft 
draperies, was brought for his inspection. Mrs. 
Mayburn, with all the accumulated maternal yearn- 
ings of her heart satisfied, would preside at the cere- 
mony. Grace, happy and proud, would nod and 
smile over her shoulder at her husband, who made a 
poor pretence of reading his paper, while the old 
veteran deliberately adjusted his spectacles and 
made comments that in their solemn drollery and 
military jargon were irresistible to the household 
that could now laugh so easily. The young life that 
had come had brought a new life to them all, and 
the dark shadows of the past shrank farther and 
farther into the background. 

But they were there, — all the sad mysteries of 


464 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


evil that had crushed the mother’s heart. Once 
they seemed to rush forward and close around her. 
Little Hilda was ill, and Grace in terror. But Dr. 
Markham speedily satisfied her that it was a trivial 
matter, and proved it to be so by his remedies. 
The impression of danger remained, however, and 
she clung to her little idol more closely than ever ; 
and this was true of all. 

Time sped tranquilly on. Hilda grew in endear- 
ing ways, and began to have knowing looks and 
smiles for each. Her preference for her grandfather 
with his great frosty eyebrows pleased the old gen- 
tleman immensely. It was both droll and touching 
to observe how one often so irascible would 
patiently let her take off his spectacles, toy with 
and often pull his gray locks, and rumple his old- 
fashioned ruffles, which he persisted in wearing on 
state occasions. It was also silently noted that the 
veteran never even verged toward profanity in the 
presence of the child. 

Each new token of intelligence was hailed with a 
delight of which natures coarse or blunted never 
know. The Wise Men of old worshipped the Babe 
in the manger, and sadly defective or perverted in 
their organizations are those who do not see some- 
thing divine in a little innocent child. 

Henry and Rita Anderson, at the urgent solicita- 
tion of Graham and his wife, came on in the autumn 
to make a visit, and, by a very strange coincidence, 
Graham’s favorite captain, a manly, prosperous fel- 
low, happened to be visiting him at the time. By 
a still more remarkable conjunction of events, he at 


I^/TA ANDERSON. 


465 


once shared in his former colonel’s admiration of 
the dark-eyed Southern girl. She was very shy, 
distant, and observant at first, for this fortuitous 
captain was a Northerner. But the atmosphere of 
the two cottages was not in the least conducive to 
coolness and reserve. The wood fires that crackled 
on the hearth, or something else, thawed percepti- 
bly the spirited girl. Moreover, there were walks, 
drives, horseback excursions, daily ; and Iss shone 
forth in a glory of which he had never dreamed as a 
plantation hand. There were light steps passing to 
and fro, light laughter, cheery, hearty voices, — in 
which the baby’s crowing and cooing were heard as 
a low, sweet chord, — music and whist to the major’s 
infinite content. The shadows shrank farther into 
the background than ever before. No one thought 
of or heeded them now ; but they were there, 
cowering and waiting. 

Only Aunt Sheba was ill at ease. Crooning her 
quaint lullabies to the baby, she would often lift her 
eyes to heaven and sigh, “ De good Lord hab marcy 
on dem ! Dey’s all a drinkin’ at de little shaller 
pools that may dry up any minit. It’s all ob de 
earth ; it’s all ob tings, nothin’ but tings which de 
eyes can see and de ban’s can touch. De good 
Lord lift dar eyes from de earth widout takin’ dat 
mos' dear !” 

But no one thought of old Aunt Sheba except as 
a faithful creature born to serve them in her humble 
way. 

The Northern captain soon proved that he had 
not a little Southern dash and ardor, and he had 


466 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


already discovered that his accidental visit to Gra^ 
ham was quite providential, as he had been taught 
to regard events that promised favorably. He very 
significantly asked Colonel Anderson to take a 
gallop with him one morning, but they had not 
galloped far before he halted and plumply asked the 
brother’s permission, as the present representative 
of her father, to pay his addresses to Rita. Now 
Captain Windom had made a good impression on 
the colonel, which Graham, in a very casual way, 
had been at pains to strengthen ; and he came back 
radiant over one point gained. But he was more 
afraid of that little Virginian girl than he had ever 
been of all her Southern compatriots. He felt that 
he must forego his cavalry tactics and open a regu- 
lar siege ; but she, with one flash of her mirthful 
eyes, saw through it all, laughed over it with Grace, 
whom from worshipping as a saint she now loved as 
a sister. Amid the pauses in their mutual worship 
of the baby, they talked the captain over in a way 
that would have made his ears tingle could he have 
heard them ; but Grace, underneath all her good- 
natured criticism, seconded her husband’s efforts 
with a mature woman’s tact. Rita should be made 
happy in spite of all her little perversities and 
Southern prejudices, and yet the hands that guided 
and helped her should not be seen. 

The captain soon abandoned his siege tactics, in 
which he was ill at ease, and resumed his old habit 
of impetuous advances in which Graham had trained 
him. Time was growing short. His visit and hers 
would soon be over. He became so downright and 


/?/TA ANDERSON. 


467 


desperately in earnest that the little girl began to be 
frightened. It was no laughing matter now, and 
Grace looked grave over the affair. Then Rita 
began to be very sorry for him, and at last, through 
Graham’s unwonted awkwardness and inattention to 
his guests, the captain and Rita were permitted to 
take a different road from the others on an eques- 
trian party. When they appeared the captain 
looked as if he were returning from a successful 
charge, and Rita was as shy and blushing as one of 
the wild roses of her native hills. She fled to 
Grace’s room, as if it were the only refuge left in 
the world, and her first breathless words were : “I 
haven’t promised anything, — that is, nothing defi- 
nite. I said he might come and see me in Virginia 
and talk to papa about it, and I’d think it over, 
and — and— Well, he was so impetuous and ear- 
nest ! Good heavens ! I thought the Northern peo- 
ple were cold, but that captain fairly took away my 
breath. You never heard a man talk so.” 

Grace had put down the baby, and now stood 
with her arm around her friend, smiling the sweetest 
encouragement. 

” I’ll explain it all to you. Miss Rita,” began 
Graham’s deep voice, as he advanced from a recess. 

‘‘ O the powers ! are you here ?” and she started 
back and looked at him with dismay. 

” Yes,” said he, ” and I merely wished to explain 
that my friend Windom was in the cavalry, and 
from much fighting with your brave, impetuous 
hard-riders we gradually fell into their habits.” 

” I half believe that you are laughing at me, — 


468 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


that you are in league with him, and have been all 
along.” 

“Yes, Rita, noble little woman, truest friend at 
the time of my bitter need, I am in league with any 
man worthy of you, — that is, as far as a man can be 
who seeks to make you happy and he took her 
hand and held it warmly. 

“ Here come my silly tears again,” and she 
dashed them to right and left. Then, looking up 
at him shyly, she faltered, “ I must admit that Tm 
a little bit happy.” 

“ I vowed you should be, all through that dark 
ride on which you led me away from cruel enemies ; 
and every flower you have placed on the grave of 
that noble man that Grace and I both loved has 
added strength to my vow.” 

” O Rita, Rita, darling !” cried Grace, clasping 
her in close embrace ; “do you think we ever for- 
get it ?” 

Can you think, Rita, that in memory of that 
never-to-be-forgotten day I would give Captain 
Windom the opportunities he has enjoyed if I did 
not think he would make you happy ? One cannot 
live and fight side by side with a man for years and 
not know his mettle. He was lion-like in battle, 
but he will ever be gentleness itself toward you. 
Best of all, he will appreciate you, and I should 
feel like choking any fellow who didn’t.” 

“ But indeed, indeed, I haven’t promised any- 
thing ; I only said — ” 

“No matter what you said, my dear, so long as 
the captain knows. We are well assured that your 


MirA ANDERSON. 


469 


every word and thought and act were true and 
maidenly. Let Windom visit you and become ac- 
quainted with your father. The more you all see of 
him the more you will respect him. ’ 

“You are wonderfully reassuring,” said the 
young girl, “and I learned to trust you long ago. 
Indeed, after your course toward Henry, I believe 
I’d marry any one you told me to. But to tell the 
truth, I have felt, for the last few hours, as if caught 
up by a whirlwind and landed I don’t know where. 
No one ever need talk to me any more about cold- 
blooded Northerners. Well, I must land at the 
dinner-table before long, and so must go and dress. 
It’s proper to eat under the circumstances, isn’t it ?” 

“ I expect to,” said Graham, laughing, “ and I’m 
more in love than you are.” 

“ Little wonder !” with a glance of ardent admi- 
ration toward Grace, and she whisked out. In a 
moment sne returned and said, “ Now, Colonel, I 
must be honest, especially as I think of your vow in 
the dark woods. I am very, very happy and 
then in a meteoric brilliancy of smiles, tears, and 
excitement, she vanished. 

On the day following Captain Windom marched 
triumphantly away, and his absence proved to Rita 
that the question was settled, no matter what she 
had said when having little breath left to say any- 
thing. 

She and her brother followed speedily, and Gra- 
ham accompanied them, to superintend in person 
the setting up of a beautiful marble column which 
he and Grace had designed for Hilland’s grave. 


470 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


It was a time of sad, yet chastened memories to 
both. In their consciousness Hilland had ceased to 
exist. He was but a memory, cherished indeed 
with an indescribable honor and love, — still only a 
memory. There was an immense difference, how- 
ever, in the thoughts of each as they reverted to his 
distant grave. Graham felt that he had there closed 
a chapter of his life, — a chapter that he would ever 
recall with the deep melancholy that often broods in 
the hearts of the happiest of men whose natures are 
large enough to be truly impressed by life’s vicissi- 
tudes. Grace knew that her girlhood, her former 
self, was buried in that grave, and with her early 
lover had vanished forever. Graham had, in a 
sense, raised her from the dead. His boundless 
love and self-sacrifice, his indomitable will, had 
created for her new life, different from the old, yet 
full of tranquil joys, new hopes and interests. He 
had not rent the new from the old, but had bridged 
with generous acts the existing chasm. He was 
doing all within his power, not jealously to with- 
draw her thoughts from that terrible past, but to 
veil its more cruel and repulsive features with flow- 
ers, laurel wreaths, and sculptured marble ; and in 
her heart, which had been dead, but into which his 
love had breathed a new life, she daily blessed him 
with a deeper affection. 

He soon returned to her from Virginia, and by 
his vivid descriptions made real to her the scenes he 
had visited. He told her how Rita and her brother 
had changed the plot in which slept the National 
and the Confederate officer into a little garden of 


RITA ANDERSON. 


471 


blossoming greenery ; how he had arranged with 
Colonel Anderson to place a fitting monument over 
the young Confederate officer, whose friends had 
been impoverished by the war ; and he kissed away 
the tears, no longer bitter and despairing, evoked 
by the memories his words recalled. Then, in 
lighter vein, he described the sudden advent of the 
impetuous captain ; the consternation of the little 
housekeeper, who was not expecting him so soon ; 
her efforts to improvise a feast for the man who 
would blissfully swallow half - baked “ pones” if 
served by her ; her shy presentation of her lover to 
the venerable clergyman, which he and Henry had 
witnessed on the veranda through the half-closed 
blinds, and the fond old man’s immense surprise 
that his little Rita should have a lover at all. 

“ ‘ My dear sir,’ he said, ' this is all very prema- 
ture. You must wait for the child to grow up before 
imbuing her mind with thoughts beyond her years.’ 

” ‘ My dear Dr. Anderson,’ had pleaded the 
adroit Windom, ‘ I will wait indefinitely, and submit 
to any conditions that you and Miss Rita impose. 
If already she has impressed me so deeply, time can 
only increase my respect, admiration, and affection, 
if that were possible. Before making a single effort 
to win your daughter’s regard, I asked permission 
of her brother, since you were so far away. I have 
not sought to bind her, but have only revealed the 
deep feeling which she has inspired, and I now come 
to ask your sanction also to my addresses.’ 

“ ‘ Your conduct,’ replied the old gentleman, un- 
bending urbanely toward the young man, ‘ is both 


472 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


honorable and considerate. Of course you know 
that my child’s happiness is my chief solicitude. 
If, after several years, when Rita’s mind has grown 
more mature, her judgment confirms — ’ 

“ Here Rita made a little moue which only her red 
lips could form, and Henry and I took refuge iil a 
silent and precipitate retreat, lest our irreverent 
mirth should offend the blind old father, to whom 
Rita is his little Rita still. You know well how 
many years, months rather, Windom will wait. 

“ Well, I left the little girl happier than the day 
was long, for I believe her eyes sparkle all through 
the night under their long lashes. As for Windom, 
he is in the seventh heaven. ‘ My latest campaign 
in Virginia,’ he whispered to me as I was about to 
ride away ; ‘ good prospects of the best capture yet 
won from the Confederacy.’ ” 

And so he made the place familiar to her, with its 
high lights and deep shadows, and its characters 
real, even down to old Jehu and his son Huey. 


CHAPTER XLI. 


A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM. 
UTUMN merged imperceptibly into winter, 



-Cx and the days sped tranquilly on. With the 
exception of brief absences on business, Graham was 
mostly at home, for there was no place like his own 
hearth. His heart, so long denied happiness, was 
content only at the side of his wife and child. The 
shadows of the past crouched farther away than 
ever, but even their own health and prosperity, their 
happiness, and the reflected happiness of others 
could not banish them wholly. The lights which 
burned so brightly around them, like the fire on 
their hearth, had been kindled and were fed by 
human hands only, and were ever liable to die out. 
The fuel that kept them burning was the best that 
earth afforded, but the supply had its inherent 
limitations. Each new tranquil day increased the 
habitual sense of security. Graham was busy with 
plans of a large agricultural enterprise in Virginia. 
The more he saw of Henry Anderson the more he 
appreciated his sterling integrity and fine business 
capabilities, and from being an agent he had be- 
come a partner. Grace’s writing-desk, at which 
Graham had cast a wistful glance the first time he 


474 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


had seen it, was often covered with maps of the 
Virginia plantation, which he proposed to develop 
into its best capabilities. Grace had a cradle by the 
^library fire as well as in her room. Beside this the 
adopted grandmother knitted placidly, and the 
major rustled his paper softly lest he should waken 
the little Grace, who persisted in making 

all of her one’s dainty plumage herself, would 
lift her eyes from time to time, full of genuine in- 
terest in his projects and in his plans for a dwelling 
on the plantation, which should be built according 
to her taste and constructed for her convenience. 

The shadows had never been farther away. Even 
old Aunt Sheba was lulled into security. Into her 
bereaved heart, as into the hearts of all the others 
the baby crept ; and she grew so bewitching with 
her winsome ways, so absorbing in her many little 
wants and her need of watching, as with the dawn- 
ing spirit of curiosity she sought to explore for her- 
self what was beyond the cradle and the door, that 
Aunt Sheba, with the doting mother, thought of 
Hilda during all waking hours and dreamt of her in 
sleep. 

At last the inconstant New England spring passed 
away, and June came with its ever-new heritage of 
beauty. The baby’s birthday was to be the grand 
/eU of the year, and the little creature seemed to 
enter into the spirit of the occasion. She could now 
call her parents and grandparents by name, and talk 
to them in her pretty though senseless jargon, 
which was to them more precious than tli<^ wisdom 
of Solomon, 


A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM. 475 


It was a day of roses and rose-colors. Roses 
banked the mantelpieces, wreathed the cradle, 
crowned the table at which Hilda sat in state in her 
high chair, a fairy form in gossamer laces, with dark 
eyes — Grace’s eyes — that 'danced with the unre- 
strained delight of a child. 

“ She looks just like my little Grace of long, long 
years ago,” .said the major, with *^nl eyes; 
” and yet. Colonel, it seems but yestbrday that your 
wife was the image of that laughing little witch 
yonder.” 

” Well, I can believe,” admitted Grandma May- 
burn, ” that Grace was as pretty, — a tremendous 
compliment to you, Grace, — but there never was 
and never will be another baby as pretty and cun- 
ning as our Hilda.” 

The good old lady never spoke of the child as 
Grace’s baby. It was always ” ours.” In Graham, 
Grace, and especially Hilda, she had her children 
about her, and the mother-need in her heart was 
satisfied. 

” Yes, Hilda darling,” said the colonel, with fond 
eyes, ” you have begun well. You could not please 
me more than by looking like your mother ; the 
next thing is to grow like her.” 

” Poor blind papa, with the perpetual glamour on 
his eyes ! He will never see his old white-haired 
wife as she is.” 

He looked at her almost perfect features with the 
bloom of health upon them, into her dark eyes with 
their depths of motherly pride and joy, at her 
snowy neck and ivory arms bare to the summer 


476 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


heat, and longest at the wavy silver of her hair, 
that crowned her beauty with an almost supernat- 
ural charm. 

“ Don’t I see you as you are, Grace he said. 
“ Well, I am often spellbound by what I do see. 
If Hilda becomes like you, excepting your sorrows, 
my dearest wish in her behalf will be fulfilled.” 

Old Aunt Sheba, standing behind the baby’s 
chair, felt a chftl at heart as she thought, ” Dey’se 
all a worshippin’ de chile and each oder. I sees it 
so plain dat I’se all ob a tremble.” 

Surely the dark shadows of the past have no place 
near that birthday feast, but they are coming 
nearer, closing in, remorseless, relentless as ever, 
and among them are the gloomy rivals against whom 
Graham struggled so long. He thought he had 
vanquished them, but they are stealing upon him 
again like vindictive, unforgiving savages. 

There was a jar of thunder upon the still air, but 
it was not heeded. The room began to darken, but 
they thought only of a shower that would banish 
the sultriness of the day. Darker shadows than 
those of thunder-clouds were falling upon them, had 
they known it. 

The wine was brought, and the health of the baby 
drank. Then Graham, ordering all glasses to be 
filled, said reverently : “To the memory of Warren 
Hilland ! May the child who is named for him 
ever remind us of his noble life and heroic death.” 

They drank in silence, then put down the glasses 
and sat for moments with bowed heads, Grace’s 
tears falling softly. Without, nature seemed equally 


A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM 477 


hushed. Not a breath stirred the sultry air. until 
at last a heavier and nearer jar of thunder vibrated 
in the distance. 

The unseen shadows are closing around the little 
Hilda, whose eyelids are heavy with satiety. Aunt 
Sheba is about to take her from her chair, when a 
swift gust, cold and spray-laden, rushes through the 
house, crushing to the doors and whirling all light 
articles into a carnival of disorder. 

The little gossamer-clad girl shivered, and, while 
others hastily closed windows, Grace ran for a shawl 
in which to wrap her darling. 

The shower passed, bringing welcome coolness. 
Hilda slept quietly through its turmoil and swishing 
torrents, — slept on into the twilight, until Aunt 
Sheba seemed a shadow herself. But there were 
darker shadows brooding over her. 

Suddenly, in her sleep, the child gave an ominous 
barking cough. 

“ O de good Lor’ !” cried Aunt Sheba, springing 
to her feet. Then with a swiftness in which there 
was no sign of age, she went to the landing and 
called, “ Mas’r Graham.” 

Grace was in the room before him. ” What is 
it ?” she asked breathlessly. 

” Well, Missy Grace, don’t be ’larmed, but I 
tinks Mas’r Graham ’ud better sen’ for de doctor, 
jes’ for caution like.” 

Again came that peculiar cough, terror-inspiring 
to all mothers. 

” Alford, Alford, lose not a moment !” she cried. 
“ It’s the croup. ” 


478 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS, 


The soldier acted as if his camp were attacked at 
midnight. There were swift feet, the trampling of 
a horse ; and soon the sldll of science, the experi- 
ence of age, and motherly tenderness confronted 
the black shadows, but they remained immovable. 

The child gasped and struggled for life. Grace, 
half frantic, followed the doctor’s directions with 
trembling hands, seeking to do everything for her 
idol herself as far as possible. Mrs. Mayburn, gray, 
grim, with face of ashen hue, hovered near and 
assisted. Aunt Sheba, praying often audibly, 
proved by her deft hands that the experience of her 
long-past motherhood was of service now. The 
servants gathered at the door, eager and impatient 
to do something for “ de bressed chile.” The poor 
old major thumped restlessly back and forth on his 
crutches in the hall below, half swearing, half pray- 
ing. Dr. Markham, pale with anxiety, but cool 
and collected as a veteran general in battle, put 
forth his whole skill to baffle the destroyer. Gra- 
ham, standing in the background with clenched 
hands, more excited, more desperate than he had 
ever been when sitting on his horse waiting for the 
bugle to sound the charge, watched his wife and 
child with eyes that burned in the intensity of his 
feeling. 

Time, of which no notice was taken, passed, 
although moments seemed like hours. The child 
still struggled and gasped, but more and more fee- 
bly. At last, in the dawn, the little Hilda lay still, 
looked up and smiled. Was it at her mother’s face, 
or something beyon 


jJ LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM. 479 


“ She is better,” cried Grace, turning her implor- 
ing eyes to the physician, who held the little hand. 

Alas ! it was growing cold in his. He turned 
quickly to Graham and whispered, ” Support your 
wife. The end is near.”. 

He came mechanically and put his arm around 
her. “Grace, dear Grace,” he faltered, hoarsely, 
“ can you not bear this sorrow also for my sake ?” 

“ Alford !” she panted with horror in her tones, 
— “ Alford 1 why, why, her hand is growing cold !” 

There was a long low sigh from the little one, and 
then she was still. 

“ Take your wife away,” said Dr. Markham, in a 
low, authoritative tone. 

Graham sought to obey in the same mechanical 
manner. She sprang from him and stood aloof. 
There was a terrible light in her eyes, before which 
he quailed. 

“ Take me away !” she cried, in a voice that was 
hoarse, strained, and unnatural. “ Never ! Tell 
me the belief of your heart. Have I lost my child 
forever? Is that sweet image of my Hilda nothing 
but clay ? Is there nothing further for this idol of 
my heart but horrible corruption ? If this is true, 
no more learned jargon to me about law and force ! 
If this is true, I am the creation of a fiend who, with 
all the cruel ingenuity of a fiend, has so made me 
that he can inflict the utmost degree of torture. If 
this is true, my motherhood is a lie, and good is 
punished, not evil. If this is true, there is neither 
God nor law, but only a devil. But let me have the 
truth : have I lost that child forever?”- 


480 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


He was dumb, and an awful silence fell upon tne 
chamber of death. 

Graham’s philosophy failed him at last. His own 
father-heart could not accept of corruption as the 
final end of his child. Indeed, it revolted at it with 
a resistless rebound as something horrible, mon- 
strous, and, as his wife had said, devilish. His old 
laborious reasoning was scorched away as by light- 
ning in that moment of intense consciousness when 
his soul told him that, if this were true, his nature 
also was a lie and a cheat. He knew not what he 
believed, or what was true. He was stunned and 
speechless. 

Despair was turning his wife’s face into stone, 
when old Aunt Sheba, who had been crouching, 
sobbing, and praying at the foot of the little couch, 
rose with streaming eyes and stretched out her 
hands toward the desperate mother. 

“ No, Missy Grace,” she cried, in tones that rang 
through the house ; ” no, no, no. Your chile am 
not lost to you ; your chile am not dead. She on’y 
sleeps. Did not de good Lord say, ‘ Suffer de little 
chillen ter come unter me’ ? An’ Hilda, de dear 
little lamb, hab gone ter him, an’ is in de Good 
Shepherd’s arms. Your little chile am not lost to 
you, she’s safe at home, de dear bressed home ob 
heben, whar your moder is, Missy Grace. De Heb- 
enly Father say, ‘ Little Hilda, you needn’t walk de 
long flinty, thorny path and suffer like you’se dear 
moder. You kin come home now, and Lse’ll take 
keer ob ye till moder comes.’ Bress de little lamb, 
she smile when de angels come fer her, an’ she’s 


A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM. 481 

safe, safe forebermore. No tears fer little Hilda, 
no heartbreak in all her ’ternal life. Dear Missy 
Grace, my little baby die, too, but I hain’t los’ it. 
No, no. De Good Shepherd is a keepin’ it safe fer 
me, an’ I shall hab my baby again.” 

It is impossible to describe the effect of this pas- 
sionate utterance of faith as it came warm and direct 
from the heart of another bereaved mother, whose 
lowliness only emphasized the universal human need 
of something more than negations and theories of 
law and force. The major heard it in the hall be- 
low, and was awed. Mrs. Mayburn and the ser- 
vants sobbed audibly. The stony look went out of 
Grace’s face ; tears welled up into her hot, dry 
eyes, and she drew near and bent over her child 
with an indescribable yearning in her face. Aunt 
Sheba ceased, sank down on the floor, and throwing 
her apron over her face she rocked back and forth 
and prayed as before. 

Suddenly Grace threw herself on the unconscious 
little form, and cried with a voice that pierced every 
heart : ^ O God, I turn to Thee, then. Is my 
child lost to me forever, or is she in Thy keeping ? 
Was my mother’s faith true ? Shall I have my baby 
once more } Jesus, art Thou a Shepherd of the 
little ones ? Hast Thou suffered my Hilda to come 
unto Thee } O, if Thou art, Thou canst reveal Thy- 
self unto me and save a broken-hearted mother 
from despair. This child was mine. Is it mine 
still ?” and she clasped her baby convulsively to her 
bosom. 

” ‘ Suffer de little chillen ter come unter me. and 


482 


HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 


forbid dem not/ ” repeated Aunt Sheba in low 
tones. 

Again a deep, awed silence fell upon them all. 
Grace knelt so long with her own face pressed 
against her child’s that they thought she had faint- 
ed. The physician motioned Graham to lift her up, 
but he shook his head. He was crushed and de- 
spairing, feeling that in one little hour he had lost 
the belief of his manhood, the child that had brought 
into his home a heaven that he at least could under- 
stand, and as he heard his wife’s bitter cry he felt 
that her life and reason might soon go also. He 
recognized again the presence of his bitter rivals. 
Grief and Death, and felt that at last they had van- 
quished him. He had not the courage or the will 
to make another effort. 

^ “ Mrs. Graham, for your husband’s sake — ” began 
Dr. Markham. 

“ Ah ! forgive me, Alford," she said, rising 
weakly ; "I should not have forgotten you for a 
moment." 

She took an uncertain step toward him, and he 
caught her in his arms. 

Laying her head upon his breast, she said gently, 
/ Alford, our baby is not dead.’’ 

“ O Grace, darling !’’ he cried in agony, " don’t 
give way, or we are both lost. I have no strength 
left. I cannot save you again. Oh ! if the awful 
past should come back !" 

, " It now can never come back. Alford, we have 
not lost our child. Aunt Sheba has had a better 
wisdom than you or I, and from this hour forth my 


A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM. 483 

mother’s faith is minej/ Do not think me wild or 
wandering. In my very soul has come the answer 
to my cry. Horrible corruption is not the end of 
that lovely life. You can’t believe it, any more 
than I. Dear little sleeper, you are still my baby. 
I shall go to you, and you will never suffer as I 
have suffered. God bless you, Aunt Sheba ! your 
heaven-inspired words have saved me from despair. 
Alford, dear Alford, do not give way so ; I’ll live 
and be your true and faithful wife. ^ I’ll teach you 
the faith that God has taught me.”' 

He drew long, deep breaths. He was like a great 
ship trying to right itself in a storm. At last he 
said, in broken tones, ” Grace, you are right. It’s 
not law or force. It’s either God, who in some 
way that I can’t understand, will bring good out of 
all this evil, or else it’s all devilish, fiendish. If 
after this night you can be resigned, patient, hope- 
ful, your faith shall be mine.” 

The shadows, affrighted, shrank farther away than 
ever before. 

“ I take you at your word,” she replied, as she 
drew him gently away. ” Come, let us go and 
comfort papa. ” 

One after another stole out after them until Mrs. 
Mayburn was alone with the dead. Long and mo- 
tionless she stood, with her eyes fixed on the quiet, 
lovely face. 

” Hilda,’" at last she moaned, ” little Hilda, shall 
poor old grandma ever see our baby again ?” 

At that moment the sun rose high enough to send 
a ray through the lattice, and it lighted the baby's 


484 HIS SOMBRE RIVALS. 

face with what seemed a smile of unearthly sweet- 
ness. 

A few moments later Aunt Sheba found the aged 
woman with her head upon little Hilda’s bosom; 
and there she received a faith that brought peace. 

A few evenings later there was a grassy mound, 
covered with roses, under the apple-tree by the 
rustic seat ; and at the head of the little grave there 
was placed a block of marble bearing the simple in- 
scription, 

“ Here sleeps our Baby Hilda.” 

**-}«•*** 

Years have passed. The little monument is now 
near another and a stately one in a Virginia ceme- 
tery. Fresh flowers are on it, showing that ‘‘ Our 
Baby Hilda” is never forgotten. Fresh flowers are 
beneath the stately column, proving that the gallant 
soldier sleeping under it is never lorgotten. Fresh 
flowers are on the young Confederate’s grave, com- 
memorating a manly and heroic devotion to a cause 
that was sacred to him. The cause was lost and 
had he lived to green old age he would have thanked 
God for it. Not least among the reasons for thank - 
fulness is the truth that to men and peoples that 
which their hearts craved is often denied. 

Not far away is a home as unostentatious as the 
Northern cottage, but larger, and endowed with 
every homelike attribute. Sweet Grace Graham is 
its mistress. Her lovely features are somewhat 
marked by time and her deep experiences, but they 
have gained a beauty and serenity that will defy 
time. Sounds of joyous young life again fill the 


i r^TFLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM, 485 

house, and in a cradle by her side “ little Grace’ ' is 
sleeping. Grandma Mayburn still knits slowly by 
the hearth, but when the days are dry and warm it 
is her custom to steal away to the cemetery and 
remain for hours with “Our Baby.” The major 
has grown very feeble, but his irritable protest 
against age and infirmity has given place to a 
serene, quiet waiting till he can rest beside the 
brave soldiers who have forgotten their laurels. 

Colonel Anderson, now a prosperous planter, has 
his own happy home life, and his aged father shares 
the best there is in it. He still preaches in the 
quaint old church, repaired but not modernized, 
and his appearance and life give eloquence to his 
faltering words. The event of the quiet year is the 
annual visit of Rita and Captain Windom with their 
little brood. Then truly the homes abound in 
breezy life ; but sturdy, blue-eyed Warren Graham 
is the natural leader of all the little people’s sport. 
The gallant black horse Mayburn is still Iss’s pride, 
but he lets no one mount him except his master. 
Aunt Sheba presides at the preparation of state 
dinners, and sits by the cradle of baby Grace. She 
is left, however, most of the time, to her own de- 
vices, and often finds her way also to the cemetery 
to “ wisit dat dear little lamb, Hilda,” murmuring 
as she creeps slowly with her cane, “ We’se alia 
followin’ her now, bress de Lord.” Jinny’s stories 
of what she saw and of her experiences abroad have 
become so marvellous that they ‘might be true of 
some other planet, but not of ours. Dusky faces 
gather round her by the kitchen fire, and absolute 


486 HIS SOMBRE RIVAl.S. 

faith is expressed by their awed looks. Old Jehu 
has all the chickens and “ sass” he wants without 
working for them, and his son Huey has settled 
down into a steady “ hand,” who satisfies his 
former ruling passion with an occasional coon-hunt. 
Both of the colonels have the tastes of sportsmen, 
and do all in their power to preserve the game in 
their vicinity. They have become closer friends 
with the lapsing years, and from crossing swords 
they look forward to the time when they can cross 
their family escutcheons by the marriage of the 
sturdy Warren with another little Rita, who now 
romps with him in a child’s happy unconsciousness. 

There are flecks of gray in Graham’s hair and 
beard, and deep lines on his resolute face, but he 
maintains his erect, soldierly bearing even when 
superintending the homely details of the plantation. 
Every one respects him ; the majority are a little 
afraid of him, for where his will has sway there is 
law and order, but to the poor and sorrowful he 
gives increasing reason to bless his name. His 
wife’s faith has become his. She has proved it true 
by the sweet logic of her life. In their belief, the 
baby Hilda is only at home before them, and the 
soldier without fear and without reproach has found 
the immortality that he longed for in his dying 
moments. He is no longer a cherished, honored 
memory only ; he is the man they loved, grown 
more manly, more noble in the perfect conditions 
of a higher plane of life. The dark mysteries of 
evil are still dark to them, — problems that cannot 
be solved by human reason. But in the Divine 


A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM. 487 

Man, toward whose compassionate face the sorrow- 
ful and sinful of all the centuries have turned, they 
have found One who has mastered the evil that 
threatened their lives. '^'They are content to leave 
the mystery of evil to Him who has become in 
their deepest consciousness Friend and Guide. He 
stands between them and the shadows of the past 
and the future. 


THE END. 


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generation. The great empires of the East were but a few years since 
little but empty names. Some vague stories survived of the magnifi- 
cence of their capitals and of the grandeur and exploits of a few kings, 
and the rest was a total blank. And now to our amazement we 
behold these empires, which had fallen to decay one after another, 
before the father of history began his gossiping narrative, rescued 
from the oblivion of ages, and we are set face to face with the long- 
buried forms of extinct civilization .*’ — Christian Union. 


PUBLICA TIONS OF DODD, MEAD COMPANY. 

By JOHN S. C. ABBOT, 
AMERICAN PIONEERS AND PATRIOTS. 
A series illustrating the early history and 
settlement of our country. Each in one vol., 
i2mo, cloth, $1.25. 

COLUMBUS AND THE DISCOVERY OF AMERICA. 

DE SOTO, THE DISCOVERER OF THE MISSISSIPPI. 
LA SALLE ; HIS DISCOVERIES AND ADVENTURES 
WITH THE INDIANS OF THE NORTHWEST. 
MILES STANDISH, THE CAPTAIN OF THE PILGRIMS. 
CAPTAIN KIDD AND THE EARLY AMERICAN BUC- 
CANEERS. 

PETER STUYVESANT AND THE EARLY SETTLE- 
MENT OF NEW YORK. 

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN AND THE STRUGGLES OF 
OUR INFANT NATION. 

GEORGE WASHINGTON AND THE REVOLUTIONARY 
WAR. 

DANIEL BOONE AND THE EARLY SETTLEMENT 
OF KENTUCKY. 

KIT CARSON, THE PIONEER OF THE FAR WEST. 
PAUL JONES, THE NAVAL HERO OF THE REVOLU- 
^ TION. 

DAVID CROCKETT AND EARLY TEXAN HISTORY. 

These attractive volumes, illustrating the early settlement of 
America and abounding with tales of courage and fortitude and 
thrilling adventures among the savage tribes, are among the best 
books issued. They are written in the clear and picturesque style 
that makes the writer’s works on the most interesting periods of 
French history so popular. The story of “ Boone,” always a favorite 
with the young, is retold with. singular vividness and freshness. In 
“ Miles Standish” we have a picture of the hardships of the Pilgrims 
from the parting at Delft Haven to their perils in the wilderness, when 
threatened by famine and surrounded by savage foes. “ De Solo’* 
reads like a romance of the chivalric deeds of knight-errantry. His 
adventures among the Indian races, his grand discovery of the 
Mississippi, and his burial in its waters, have never before been told 
so clearly, connectedly and circumstantially. 


PUBLICATIONS OF DODD, MEAD ^ COMPANY. 


JOHN S. C. ABBOT. — Continued. 

“ Christopher Carson ” is the story of one of the most famous of 
the Western adventurers whose life is a romance of the wilderness. 

** Peter Stuyvesant ” gives a capital picture of the early history 
of New York before it passed into the hands of the English. 

If a career of daring and successful undertakings, of gallan* 
conduct in battle, of fearless enterprises at sea, is worthy of record, 
the life history of “John Paul Jones” deserves a place in our 
country’s archives. 

The life of “Crockett” is a veritable romance, with the addi- 
tional charm of unquestionable truth. It opens to the reader scenes 
in the lives of the lowly and a state of semi-civilization of which but 
few can have any idea. 

The wild and wonderful narrative of “Captain Kidd ” forms a 
story which the imagination of Dickens or Dumas could scarcely 
rival. 

La Salle” was one of the purest and noblest of the pioneers of 
American civilization, and as such his history should be read and 
understood. 

In “ Columbus ” we have again the story of the discovery of 
America, while the lives of “Franklin” and “Washington” take 
us among the times that tried men’s souls, the dark days of the 
Revolution and the early years of the United States. 


MINOR WARS OF THE UNITED STATES, 

A Series of Popular Histories, uniform with the 
Pioneer and Patriot and American Indian 
Series. Each i vol., i2mo, attractively bound 
in cloth. Per vol., $1.25. 

1. THE WAR OF 1812. By Rossiter Johnson. 

2. THE OLD FRENCH WAR. By Rossiter Johnson. 

1 . THE WAR WITH MEXICO. By H. O. Ladd. 

4. KING PHILLIP’S WAR. By Richard Markham. 


PUBLICATIONS OF DODD, MEAD (5r* COMPANY. 


By F. R. GOULDING. 

THE YOUNG MAROONERS. With introduc- 
tion by Joel Chandler Harris (Uncle Remus), 
with 8 double-page illustrations. i2mo, cloth, 
$1.25. 

MAROONER’S ISLAND. With six double-page 
illustrations by W. C. Jackson. Uniform with 
The Young Marooners." i2mo, cloth, $1.25. 

THE WOODRUFF STORIES. Sapelo— Nar- 
cooche — Saloquah. A new edition of these 

entertaining stories.^ With six illustrations by 
W. C. Jackson, i vol., i2mo, cloth, $1.25. 

It has been written with truth that the ‘ Young Marooners * is 
known in many lands and languages. It has become a permanency 
— a classic so to speak. It is vigorous, interesting, suggestive. 
Every boy and girl will thank you for a copy.’* — Item^ Philadelphia. 


NOVELS BY MARTHA FINLEY. 

Author of The Elsie Books, each i vol., i2mo. 
cloth, $1.25. 

CASELLA. A Tale of the Waldenses. 

OUR FRED ; or. Seminary Life at Thurston. 
OLD-FASHIONED BOY. 

WANTED, A PEDIGREE. 

THE THORN IN THE NEST. 

SIGNING THE CONTRACT, AND WHAT IT 
COST. 

“This story is original in plan, written in natural tone, at many 
points extremely touching, and possessing interests for all those 
readers who like fiction which develops lessons of a highly spiritual 
character .’’ — Literary World. 


PUBLICATIONS OF DODD, MEAD COAIPANY, 


By MARTHA FINLEY. 

THE ELSIE BOOKS. Per voL, $1.25. 15 vols. 
in a box, i2mo, cloth, $18.75. 


ELSIE DINSMORE. 
ELSIE’S GIRLHOOD. 
ELSIE’S HOLIDAYS AT 
ROSELANDS. 

ELSIE’S WOMANHOOD. 
ELSIE’S MOTHERHOOD. 
ELSIE’S CHILDREN. 
ELSIE’S WIDOWHOOD. 
GRANDMOTHER ELSIE. 


ELSIE’S NEW RELATIONS. 
ELSIE AT NANTUCKET.' 
THE TWO ELSIES. 

ELSIE’S KITH AND KIN. 
ELSIE’S FRIENDS AT 
WOODBURN. 

CHRISTMAS WITH GRAND- 
MA ELSIE. 

;lsie and the Raymonds. 


“The one cause of this author’s popularity among thoughtful 
people is that she never neglects to inculcate the doctrines of upright 
living and Christian integrity, and the charming stories of domestic 
life that she has given us are told in so delightful a manner that one 
becomes quite as interested in reading them as the more sensational 
books of the day.” — Detroit Commercial Advertiser. 

The author of the Elsie Books is not a stranger to youthful read- 
ers, especially to the girls, with whom she is a great favorite. Her 
stories are pure and good, and yet full of incident which interests and 
holds the attention, but does not unduly excite. Such books as this 
are healthful in their influence. 


THE MILDRED BOOKS. A Companion Series 


to the Elsie Books, 
box, $7.50. 

MILDRED KEITH. 
MILDRED AT ROSE- 
LANDS. 

MILDRED’S MARRIED 
LIFE. 


Per vol., $1.25. 6 vols. in 

MILDRED AND ELSIE. 
MILDRED AT HOME. 
MILDRED’S BOYS AND 
GIRLS. 


“ In a sweet, simple strain the author tells the story of her char- 
acters, their romances, their joys, and their sorrows. Miss Finley 
portrays so beautiful a Christian spirit pervading the households and 
individuals she represents, that religion through them seems very at- 
tractive.” — Christian Observer, 


PUBLICATIONS OF DO DU, MEAD COMPANY. 


CONSUELO. By George Sand. Translated from 
the French by Frank H. Potter. 4 vols., i2mo, 
cloth, $6.00 ; half calf, $12.00 ; half levant, $15.00. 

“This is a wonderfully beautiful edition of an ever fascinating 
book. We must confess that, as we read it many years ago in Peter- 
son’s paper-covered octavo, the type miserably small and worn, once 
in the stream of it, we didn’t think much of the externals. But it is 
right that they should be as beautiful as they are here. George Sand 
never wrote anything more beautiful than the opening portion of 
‘ Consuelo,’ of which Venice is the scene. That more than Howells, 
more than Browning’s ‘ In a Gondola,’ more than anything else, 
shaped our dream of Venice ; and when it at length came true, it was 
the little Consuelo that we saw in many a large-eyed, brown-cheeked 
girl upon the Riva or in the Grand Piazza or the Piazzetta or the 
Merceria’s narrow, crowded way. After the transference of the scene 
from Venice to Germany, there is a distinct falling from the grace of 
the introductory part ; but then comes the charming episode of Joseph 
Haydn, never to be forgotten. And Consuelo, is she not always 
there, illuminating every scene and fascinating even when at fault ? 
The translation reads as easily and pleasantly as if it were an English 
original. Of the multitude of translators of the great French novel- 
ists that have appeared of late in new and beautiful editions, this 
seems to us one of the most fortunate. It cannot but be that it will 
attract a multitude of readers who have never proved the quality of 
the book in the original or any previous translation, and tempt many 
others to renew the pleasure of an earlier time .” — The Christian 
Register. 


TO GEORGE SAND. 

{A Desire.') 

Thou large-brained woman and large-he.arted man, 

Self-called George Sand ! whose soul, amid the lions 
Of thy tumultuous senses, moans defiance. 

And answers roar for roar, as spirits can ! 

I would some wild miraculous thunder ran 
Above the applauded circus in appliance 
Of thine own nobler nature’s strength and science, 

Drawing two pinions, white as wings of swan, 

From thy strong shoulders, to amaze the place 
With holier light ! that thou, a woman’s claim^ 

And man’s, might’st join beside the angel’s grace 
Of a pure genius sanctified from blame, 

Till child and maiden pressed to thine embrace. 

To kiss upon thy lips a stainless fame. 

pLiZABjSTH Barrett Browning. 


PUBLICATIONS OF DODD, MEAD ^ COMPANY. 


THE NOVELS OF BESANT AND RICE. 

Library edition, crown 8vo, handsomely printed and 
bound in cloth, with gilt tops, per vol., $1.50. 

j 

THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. 

THE MONKS OF THELEMA. 

WITH HARP AND CROWN. 

MY LITTLE GIRL. 

BY CELIA’S ARBOUR. 

THIS SON OF VULCAN. 

THE TEN YEARS’ TENANT. 

• READY MONEY MORTIBOY. 

THE CHAPLAIN OF THE FLEET. 

THE SEAMY SIDE. 

THE CASE OF MR. LUCRAFT. 

’TWAS IN TRAFALGAR’S BAY. 

“As stories every one of these has its individual charm. Their 
men are manly and their women are womanly. Honor and gentle- 
hood form the theme of all the novels. It is this which gives them 
their potent charm. To the fancy of these writers every good girl is 
a princess, and every young man is a knight, sworn to pay her rever- 
ence and to defend her against all breath of evil. And as long as 
such suggestions appeal to the truest and highest of feelings, Besant 
and R-ice will have a deserved popularity .” — The Epoch. 


PUBLICATIONS OF DODD, MEAD ^ COMPANY. 


By MONIER WILLIAMS, Professor of San- 
scrit in the East India College, 

SAKOONTALA ; OR, THE LOST RING. From 
the Sanscrit of Kalidasa. Limited large-paper 
edition of lOO copies on Japan paper, head-pieces 
and borders in color, $25.00. Library edition, 
i2mo, cloth, $2.50. 

Several editions of this great Indian drama have appeared 
abroad, but this, we think, is the first attempt to bring it to the 
notice of American readers. The best evidence of its appreciation by 
scholars is perhaps shown in Goethe’s lines : 

“ Wouldst thou the young year’s blossoms and the fruits of its decline. 

And all by which the soul is charmed, enraptured, fea'-ted, fed ? 

Wouldst thou the earth and heaven itself in one sole name combine? 

I name thee, O Sakoontala ! and all at once is said. ” 

DON QUIXOTE, THE INGENIOUS GENTLE- 
MAN DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA. 
By Miguel De Cervantes Saavedra. Translated 
with introduction and notes. 4 vols. 50 copies 
on large paper, $25.00. 

Library Edition, i2mo, cloth, full gilt sides and back 
and gilt top, $6.00. 

“Mr. Ormsby’s translation is of the first order for ease and sim- 
plicity and retains the flavor of the original to a surprising degree; 
his scholarship is a guarantee for correctness. He has not modern- 
ized the language and construction as little as he has sought out 
archaisms of language in the endeavor to give an antique flavor. It 
is a genuine reproduction, one of the most successful in our language, 
of a masterpiece of foreign literature .” — Literary World. 

PHILIP SCHAFF, D.D., and ARTHUR 
GILMAN. 

THE LIBRARY OF SUNDAY POETRY. A col- 
lection of the Best Poems of All Ages and Ton- 
gues, with biographical and literary notes and 
portraits. 8vo, 1004 pages, $3.50. 

“ A most welcome addition to the poet’s library is this new and 
revised edition of religious poetry. A hoard of wealth from the 
world of verse is here garnered and served for the lover of such feasts. 
Poems of all ages and tongues, with biographical and literary notes, 
are here found, and they make a work of sterling value. Good taste 
and sound judgment are manifest on every page of this collection. 
The editor’s work is thorough and deserves high praise. The sub- 
jects are classified, and an index of authors, with their works, renders 
the volume complete and convenient .” — Christian Observer. 


PUBLICATIONS OF DODD, MEAD S' COMPANY. 


By JULIET CORSON. 

THE COOKING MANUAL OF PRACTICAL DI- 
RECTIONS FOR ECONOMICAL EVERY- 
DAY COOKERY. i8mo, in water-proof covers, 
50 cents. 

PRACTICAL AMERICAN COOKERY AND 
HOUSEHOLD MANAGEMENT. 12 mo, 
cloth, with many illustrations, $1.50. 

Rand Avery Company, Printers. 

Boston, Mass., Dec. 4, 1886. 

Messrs. Dodd^ Mead ^ Company. 

Dear Sirs: I think the best testimonial that you could have, or, 
in fact, could be given to any book, is this : Sixteen of the hands in 
the composition-room where your Cook-Book was set up, who saw 
parts or the whole of it or knew of it, have been so much pleased 
with the work that they desire to purchase a copy each, and have 
asked me to write for them. I never knew a book go through the 
office before which there was such a general desire to own, and it 
shows there must be something in it that makes it specially adapted 
to practical home use. As the foreman said, it will suit all kinds 
of appetites. Please send us by express 17 copies. 

Yours truly, Avery L. Rand, Treas. 


By Gen. A. W. GREELY. 
AMERICAN WEATHER. A popular exposition 
of the phenomena of the weather, including 
chapters on Hot and Cold Waves, Blizzards, 
Hail-Storms and Cyclones, etc., etc. Illustrated 
with engravings and twenty-four charts. By 
A. W. Greely, Chief Signal Officer, U. S. A. 
8vo, $2.50. 

“The object of the present work is to give clearly and simply 
without the use of mathematics an idea of meteorology. The intro- 
ductory chapters treat briefly the methods of measuring atmospheric 
pressure, temperature, and other meteorological phenomena, while 
the rest of the book is a detailed climatology of the United States. 
The various phenomena are fully discussed ^nd illustrated by 
numerous maps which convey a peculiar interest to the book. The 
vast amount of material collected by the Signal Service and the State 
meteorological services has been made use of and makes the book a 
very complete and comprehensive review of the climatology of the 
United States." — Science. 


PUBLICATIONS OF DODD, MEAD COMPANY. 


GREAT EXPLORERS AND EXPLORA- 
TIONS. 

Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Company announce that, in 
connection with Messrs. G. Philip & Son, of London, they 
have begun the publication of a series entitled 

GREAT EXPLORERS AND EXPLORATIONS. 
Edited by J. Scott Keltic, Librarian Royal 
Geographical Society; H. J. Mackinder, M.A., 
Reader in Geography at the University of 
Oxford ; and E. G. Ravenstein, F.R.G.S. 

The volumes will deal with the life and work of those heroic 
adventurers through whose exertions the face of the earth has been 
made known to humanity. 

Each will, so far as the ground covered admits, deal mainly with 
one prominent name associated with some particular region, and 
will tell the story of his life and adventures, and describe the work 
which he accomplished in the service of geographical discovery. The 
aim will be to do ample justice to geographical results, while the 
personality of the explorer is never lost sight of. In a few cases, in 
which the work of discovery cannot be possibly associated with the 
name of any single explorer, some departure from this plan may be 
unavoidable, but it will be followed as far as practicable. It is hoped 
that when the series is concluded, it will form a fairly complete Bio- 
graphical History of Geographical Discovery. 

Each volume will be written by a recognized authority on this 
subject, and will be amp])’’ furnished with specially prepared maps, 
portraits, and other original illustrations. 

While the names of the writers whose co-operation has been 
secured are an indication of the high standard aimed at from a liter- 
ary and scientific point of view, the series will be essentially a popu- 
lar one, appealing to the great mass of general readers, young and 
old, who have always shown a keen interest in the story of the 
world’s exploration, when well told. 

Each volume v/ill consist of about 300 pp., i2mo, and will be 
published at $125. 


PUBLICATIONS OF DODD, MEAD 6r* COMPANY. 


Two volumes of the series are now published, namely; 

JOHN DAVIS. Arctic Explorer and Early India 
Navigator. By Clements R. Markham, C.B., 
F.R.S. 


PALESTINE. By Major C. R. Conder, R E., 
Leader of the Palestine Exploring Expeditions. 

The following are in rapid preparation : 

MAGELLAN AND THE PACIFIC. By Dr. H. 
H. Guillemard, author of The Cruise of the 
Marchesa.” 


JOHN FRANKLIN AND THE NORTHWEST 
PASSAGE. By Captain Albert Markham, R.N. 

SAUSSURE AND THE ALPS. By Douglas 
Freshfield, Hon. Sec. Royal Geographical 
Society. 

MUNGO PARK AND THE NIGER. By Joseph 
Thomson, author of '‘Through Masai Land,” 
etc. 

THE HIMALAYA. By Lieut.-General R. 
Strachey, R.E., C.S.I., late President of the 
R.G.S. 

LIVINGSTONE AND CENTRAL AFRICA 
By H. H. Johnston, Consul at Mozam- 

bique. 


ROSS AND THE ANTARCTIC. By H. J. Mac- 
kinder, M.A., Reader in Geography at Oxford. 

BRUCE and THE NILE. By J. Scott Keltic, 
Librarian, R.G.S. 


VASCO DA GAMA AND THE OCEAN HIGH- 
INDIA. By E. G. Ravenstein, 

r .K.ljr.o. 


It is proposed to include in the series several volumes devoted 
to American Explorers. 


PUBLICATIONS OF DODD, MEAD 6f COMPANY. 


By CHARLES NORDHOFF. 
MAN-OF-WAR LIFE. i6mo, cloth, $i.oo. 

THE MERCHANT VESSEL. i6mo, cloth, $1.00. 
WHALING AND FISHING. i6mo, cloth, $1.00. 
SAILOR LIFE ON MAN-OF-WAR AND MER- 
CHANT VESSEL. This volume consists of 
“Man-of-War Life” and “ Merchant Vessel.” 
Several hundred illustrations. 4to, cloth, $2.50. 

“ There is not a boy in America, whether he has the marine fever 
or not, who will not enjoy it, for the kind of literature which it rep- 
resents is one that never grows old nor loses its charm .” — Mail and 
Express, 


By ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS. 
GYPSY BREYNTON. 

GYPSY’S COUSIN JOY. 

GYPSY’S SOWING AND REAPING. 

GYPSY’S YEAR AT THE GOLDEN CRES- 
CENT. 

Comprising the Gypsy Stories. 4 vols., i6mo, doth, 
each, $i.Q0. 

“One of the most charming and at the same time healthful scries 
of books for girls. 

By CHAS. FREDERICK HOLDER. 

A FROZEN DRAGON, AND OTHER TALES. 
A Story Book of Natural History for Boys and 
Girls. Illustrated by J. C. Beard, D. C. Beard, 
J. M. Nugent, and others, from sketches by the 
author. By C. F. Holder, author of “ The Ivory 
King,” Marvels of Animal Life,” “Elements of 
Zoology,” “A Strange Company,” “Living 
Lights,” etc. 4to, cloth, $2.00. 

“ This book deals with the facts of natural history in the familiar 
tone which brings them easily in the grasp of children and interests 
while it instructs. The facts of natural history here embodied are 
well interwoven and interspersed with entertaining stories of animals, 
and the whole is exceedingly well illustrated bv many full-page 
pictures and numerous smaller cuts.”— Dud. 


PUBLICATIONS OF DODD, MEAD <5r* COMPANY. 


LUBKE’S HISTORY OF ART. 

OUTLINES OF THE HISTORY OF ART. A 
new translation from the Seventh German Edi- 
tion. Edited with notes by Clarence Cook, in 
2 vols., royal 8vo, with nearly 600 illustrations. 
Cloth, gilt top, $14.00; half morocco, $19.00; 
half levant, $22.50. 

Student’s edition, complete. Two vols., 8vo, half 
roan, $7.50 ; half morocco, $12.50. 

‘'In the new interest in art, awakened in this country, these 
volumes ought to be the primer of our artists and art admirers. 
There is no other work of equal value accessible to the reader, and the 
numerous illustrations make it easy to grasp the principles, and fob 
low the development of the branches of art, architecture, sculpture, 
and painting .” — New York Independent, 

“ The great success of his book in Europe is partly due to the 
fact that it is the only one of its kind from which those who aim at 
general culture can obtain a sufficient idea of one of the broadest 
fields of human activity, concerning which everyone nowadays is 
expected to know something .” — Charles C. Perkins. 

‘'An accepted standard of information, . . . astonishingly 

full, without reaching proportions which might make it generally 
impractical ; scrupulously exact, and illustrated with a rare instinct 
of selection.” — N, Y. Tribune. 


HE FOREST (JULIA B.). 

A SHORT HISTORY OF ART. Octavo, with 
253 illustrations, numerous charts, a full index 
giving the pronunciation of the proper names 
by phonetic spelling, and a glossary. $2.00. 

** It is a library of art histories crystallized into a most useful 
hand-book. The author has made by far the best text-book for 
beginners in art history that has yet appeared. The book is clear and 
vigorous in style, and written with a firmness that comes of sure 
knowledge .” — Litcraty World. 


PUBLICATIONS OF DODD, MEAD COMPANY. 


WOLTMAN AND WOERMAN’S HISTORY 
OF PAHS TING. 

HISTORY OF PAINTING. Ancient, Early 
Christian, Mediaeval. From the German of 
Prof, Alfred Woltman and Dr. Carl Woerman. 
Translated and edited by Prof. Sidney Colvin, 
of Cambridge University. Large 8vo. Numer- 
ous illustrations. Cloth, $7.50 ; half morocco, 
$10.50; half levant, $12.50. 

A HISTORY OF MODERN PAINTING, by the 
same authors, covering the period of the Renais- 
sance. 8vo, uniform with vol. i. Profusely 
illustrated. Cloth, $12.50 ; half morocco, $15.50 , 
half levant, $17.50. 

STUDENT’S EDITION. Complete in 2 vols.; 
half roan, $7.50. 

“ The work is a great treatise, broad as art itself in scope, 
scrupulously faithful in treatment, and founded upon scholarship the 
profoundest and most admirably balanced.” — A\ V. Evening Post. 

The amazing industry and learning of Professor Woltman is all 
his own ; so is his fidelity to history as well as his painstaking con- 
scientiousness. All this combined makes Woltman’s work the best 
manual and the best reference-book on the history of Painting to 
found in the English language. 

WILKINSON (SIR J. GARDNER, D.C.L., 
F.R.S., F.R.G.S. etc.). 

THE MANNERS AND CUSTOMS OF THE 
ANCIENT EGYPTIANS. A new edition, 
revised and corrected by Samuel Birch, LL.D., 
D.C.L., Keeper of the Egyptian and Oriental 
Antiquities in the British Museum ; President of 
the Society of Biblical Archseology, etc. With 
several hundred illustrations, many of them full- 
page plates in color. In 3 vols., 8vo, cloth, $8.00. 

A new, cheaper, and very handsome edition of Wilkinson’s 
great work. 


PUBLICATIONS OF DODD, MEAD (3* COMPANY. 


MITCHELL’S HISTORY OF SCULPTURE. 

A HISTORY OF ANCIENT SCULPTURE. 
Imperial 8vo, by Lucy M. Mitchell. With 295 
wood-engravings in the text by sonie of the 
most skilled artists of this country and Europe, 
and 6 full-page photogravures prepared by 
Frisch, of Berlin. Elegantly printed, bound in 
cloth, gilt tops, $12 50 ; half morocco, $18.00 ; 
full morocco, $20.00. 

Student’s Edition. Printed from the same plates 
with all the wood engravings. 2 vols., half 
roan, $7.50 ; half morocco, $12.50. 

SELECTIONS FROM ANCIENT SCULP- 
TURE. 20 heliotype plates, printed in Berlin 
in the highest style of the art from original 
negatives taken expressly for Mrs. Mitchell, 
and intended to accompany her book. With 
descriptive text. In portfolio. Folio, $4.00. 

“Our author has brought to her stately task a thorough under- 
standing of her subject, an exquisite modesty, and long years of 
thoughtful travel in lands where art was cradled and where its 
greatest glories were achieved .” — Chicago Tribune, 

“One of the most valuable contributions so far made to the 
history of art. Mrs. Mitchell treats of the productions of the sculp- 
tor’s chisel in connection with all the different phases of lifeT— 
religious, political, social, and aesthetic — to whose service they were 
devoted. Much light is thrown upon ancient art by a study of the 
institutions and history of the ancient peoples, and conversely, the 
study of all art-products enables us to reach a better understanding 
of the life and times of the people among whom they originated. 
The work will at once be accorded a place among the classics in art 
literature.”— iV. Y, World. 


PROF. JAMES FERGUSSON. 

A HISTORY OF ARCHITECTURE IN ALL 
COUNTRIES, from the earliest times to the 
present day. Uniform with Liibke’s History 
of Art. 2 vols., 8vo, with 1015 illustrations, 
half roan, $7.50 ; half morocco, $12.50. 

Fergusson’s great work is in this handsome, though inexpensive 
edition, made accessible to art students to whom it is an acknowl- 
edged necessity. 


PUBLICATTOMS OF DODD, MEAD &= COMPANY. 


The Works of EDWARD GARRETT. 

A new edition, bound in uniform style. i2mo, cloth, 
per vol., $1.00. 

DOING AND DREAMING. 

BY STILL WATERS. 

GOLD AND DROSS ; or, Hester Capel’s Inheritance. 
CROOKED PLACES. A Story of Struggles and Triumphs. 
PREMIUMS PAID TO EXPERIENCE. 

THE DEAD SIN, AND OTHER STORIES. 

THE OCCUPATIONS OF A RETIRED LIFE. 

THE CRUST AND THE CAKE. 

THE HOUSE BY THE WORKS. 

FAMILY FORTUNES. 

HER OBJECT IN LIFE. 

AT ANY COST. 

EQUAL TO THE OCCASION. 

JOHN WINTER. A Story of the Harvest. 

LIFE’S LONG BATTLE WON. 

“ There is a quiet charm about the writings of Edward Garrett, 
a simple purity of thought, a high but unpretending range of senti- 
ment, a tender piety without Phariseeism, an expression and fulfil- 
ment, in fine, of culture and modest Christianity, which is peculiarly 
satisfying to the soul in these times of worldly worry and worldly in- 
tensity.” — N. Y. Evening Mail. 

Edward Garrett has done good service in giving these wholesome 
stories to the public. Without a word of preaching, each points un- 
erringly to the right course, and not only young men and women, 
but older people, may learn many valuable lessons from their silent 
teaching. 

‘“Crooked Places ' tells a healthful story of an English family 
reduced from wealth to poverty, who overcame trials, and emerged 
from their struggles purified and developed.” — Christian Era. 

“ The great value of Doing over Dreaming is illustrated by the 
history of two families who lived side by side, and the principle and 
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is enforced in such a manner as to show the dignity and honorable- 
ness of such a course over a time serving policy.” — St. Louis Evan- 
gelist. 


PUBLIC A TIONS OF DODD, MEAD COMPANY. 


By EDWAKD and GEORGE CARY 
EGGLESTON. 

FAMOUS AMERICAN INDIANS. A series 
illustrative of Early American History. Each 
in one handsome volume, illustrated with maps 
and engravings. Uniformly bound. i2mo, 
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TECUMSEH AND THE SHAWNEE. PROPHET. By 

Edward Eggleston and Lillie Eggleston Seelye. 

RED EAGLE. By George Cary Eggleston. 

POCAHONTAS. By Edward Eggleston and Mrs. Seelye. 
BRANDT AND RED JACKET. By the same. 
MONTEZUMA. By the same. 

These books deal with the most romantic period of American 
history. Tecumseh, the greatest of the Shawnees, was perhaps the 
greatest genius of his race known in the annals of our country. The 
Life of Red Eagle throws light on the Creek War, which broke out 
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By KIRKE MUNROE, 

THE GOLDEN DAYS OF ’49. A Tale of the 
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" A book fascinating from beginning to end. It tells in vigorous 
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PUBLICATIONS OF DODD, MEAD ^ COMPANY. 


The Works of Mrs. ANDREW CHARLES. 
Each in i vol., i2mo, cloth, $i.oo. 

CHRONICLES OF THE SCHONBERG-COTTA FAMILY, 
as Told by Two of Themselves. 

EARLY DAWN (THE) ; or, Sketches of Christian Life in Eng;- 
land in the Early Time. 

DIARY OF KITTY TREVELYAN. A Story of the Times of 
Whitefield and the Wesleys. 

WINIFRED BERTRAM, AND THE WORLD SHE LIVED 
IN. 

THE DRAYTONS AND THE DAVENANTS. A Story of the 
Civil Wars. 

ON BOTH SIDES OF THE SEA. A Story of the Common- 
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THE VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED. A Story of the 
First Century. 

JOAN THE MAID, DELIVERER OF FRANCE AND ENG- 
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LAPSED, BUT NOT LOST. A Tale of Carthage and the 
Early Church. 

NOTE-BOOK OF THE BERTRAM FAMILY. A Sequel to 
“ Winifred Bertram.” 

WOMEN OF CHRISTENDOM. Being Sketches of the Lives 
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CONQUERING AND TO CONQUER. 

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THREE MARTYRS OF THE XIX. CENTURY. 

“The moral tendency of the books by this author is of the high- 
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